


Shadowed Sonder - Dreamnotfound

by Dehsinrat



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fiction, Fluff, Gay, I have no idea what I'm doing, I'm so sorry, It'll make sense eventually, M/M, Mutual Pining, My First Fanfic, Slow Burn, Uhhh this is my first time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:08:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 28,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27893572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dehsinrat/pseuds/Dehsinrat
Summary: Clay doesn't see darkness when he closes his eyes. Instead, he’s transported into the mind of George, a guy living in a different country. And to Clay's knowledge, a guy that doesn't exist. Clay's life in his small Florida city is covered in family tension, and laundry; diagnosed with epilepsy Clay finds himself questioning what's real. Clay is only a spectator in George's world -- until he learns to control him. In the beginning George is confused, then, he's furious. But to keep themselves alive, they'll have to work together and discover the truth behind their connection.*Note: if the content creators decide they no longer want work like this published, this will be promptly deleted.I currently have no plans to write smut, please respect the CC's.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 93
Kudos: 162





	1. IGNITE

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first work on here, so forgive me if there's a mistake somewhere, I apologise. This will be following canon events with non-canon events, I promise it'll make more sense when you start reading! Thank you so much <3

**Trigger Warnings:**

-angst, abuse, fire, mention of seizure, small blood

CHAPTER ONE - IGNITE 

In the country of England, George was resting.

Making his way through the aisles of his local Walmart, Clay wished he could do the same -- just curl up in bed, close his eyes, and see nothing but the insides of his eyelids. 

No, he corrected himself: see nothing but the insides of George's eyelids. He hadn't seen his own in years.

If he hurried, he could purchase the notebooks and get home before George woke up again. He rushed to the office supplies, adjusting his backpack, and raided the shelves for the right kind: hard-backed, easy enough to stack, and thick enough pages to withstand the ink of his pen seeping into the paper when he paused on the same spot too long. 

"Can I assist you in finding what you're looking for?" A pesky employee seemingly fabricated into existence on his right.

Clay offered a quick smile. Not quite his teacher smile, but almost -- he didn't visit stores enough to have an employee smile. All the violently fluorescent lights and bustling shoppers made Clay uneasy. If something happened in George's world, there was nowhere to escape. At least the school had stalls where he could calm himself. Sometimes, if he got lucky, Clay even got to use the teacher's office. When the epileptic kid said he felt a seizure coming, teachers complied, if only out of fear that Mom would threaten to sue the school again.

"No, thanks." Clay drew himself from her. Another nervous smile. He fingered the straps of his backpack. "I'll be fine on my own, thank you."

He looked back to the notebooks, ignoring the salesclerk. George would obviously select a blue notebook out of the options before him. He pushed that thought away -- with George asleep, this was the one time of day he could focus on himself, on his own world. The second he woke up, or when he started to dream, all his inner peace and quiet would vanish.

Maybe he should pick up some pens while he's out. He couldn't risk running out of ink.

The blue-uniformed Walmart employee, likely named Debra or something, crouched down to rearrange some disorganized kids' sketchbooks. Clay concentrated back on the shelves, and the recent pop single bursting through the store's speakers. Easier said than done, he scoffed to himself. The music cut off every time he blinked, replaced with George's melodic slow breaths, and the soft rustling of sheets. 

There. They moved his favourite brand of notebooks to a different place. Clay reached his -- 

**\-- get up! --**

\-- it was just a snippet of a voice. Male. For a second, Clay thought it was another shopper, perhaps the radio overhead. 

It wasn't. George had risen. Clay turned away from the employee. He needed a moment to shut his eyes without her knowing, aquire a second look into George's world to see what was happening. He inhaled deeply, feeling his eyes water from keeping them open. The glow of the angry Walmart lights faded into nothing --

**"-- up, George." It was his step-father's voice, as Clay knew it would be. Long fingers grasped onto George's wrist. They were cold to his sleep-warm skin, and strong, feeling rough to the touch.**

**He yanked him out of his twin-sized bed. His blanket slid off, now dramatically displayed across the bed and floor, he stumbled onto the wooded planks. Splinters dug themselves into his hands and knees.**

**"Why are you still here?" Damon growled at him, "you're supposed to be at school, damnit!"**

**George didn't answer. Even when he could, when he wasn't dragging him by the arm like this, he never answered. Damon would only get worse. He scrambled to regain balance, but his every muscle held stiff with fear and fatigue.**

**Through the desperation, Clay tried to yoink George's arm free. It didn't respond. Never has. Clay only ever got to watch and feel. His personal prison.**

**Just leave me alone, George was thinking, I don't even have school today, it's a Sunday. I didn't even leave my room, and it's dark out -- but Damon wouldn't care. The alcohol oozed from his words like a wicked coat of honey, he wouldn't hurt --**

"-- Clay?" 

His eyes unclenched briskly at the feeling of the employee's hand on his back. Her perfume assulted his nostrils, sharp and Burberry fruity -- no, Burberry was from George's world, not here. The clerk's scent was just plain fruit. End of story. This world was cheap perfume, office supplies, and the beat of pop music overhead. Forget England. Forget the splintery wood of the floors, the musty yet comforting smell of George's matress, the smoke that stained the walls. 

He must've been in George's head for longer than he thought. At least he was still on his feet, despite his body being slouched against the nearby racks and a pack of books on the floor he knocked over. 

"Are you okay?" She squinted. Caked on makeup around her eyes crinkled into crow's-feet. "You're Clay, yeah? Should I contact Dr. Anderson?" 

"No, I'll be alright." He forced a smile. She not only knew his name, but his doctor's, too? Gossip was going to be the death of him, and he hardly even leaves his house. "Sorry for dropping those." 

"Not a problem!" 

Clay snatched a packet of pens from a nearby rack, then bent to assist picking up the mess he made. His eyes started to ache, but he couldn't allow them to blink, not now of all times. He already knew what George was dealing with; blinking meant he would have to deal with it too. He needed somewhere to go. "Where is the bathroom?" 

The burning was dreadful, and he couldn't stand tearing up in front of the fruity smelling probably-named-Debra employee. They seared with a deep pain. He blinked, and for that millisecond George took him over **\-- flames crackled in the room's fireplace, and George made a whimper that barely escaped his lips --** and suddenly Clay was back. He blinked a few more times, rapid in succession, only getting flashes of heat and fear. The blaze flickered close. 

Something had pissed off Damon. Clay hadn't seen him this upset in a long while. He'd occasionally hit George, and get ticked off by his attendance records -- but _this?_ There's no way. 

Clay held the plastic covered notebooks close, his knuckles turning white and shaking. The employee studied him. If she had answered his question, it went through one ear and out the other. "I'll get your mother," she stated. 

His mother? How in blue blazes would she get his mother? But she was gone before he could put his inquiry to words, he grit his teeth, looking about. Finding a bathroom would take too long for him. In desperation, he decided the parking lot would be the next best option. He couldn't break down in the store -- couldn't risk more rumors. 

Another blink. Clay was stalking through the aisles **\-- legs tangled, kicking, being dragged --** his eyes snapped back into his world, and he stumbled. Clay caught himself on the nearest rack, sending a metal blade into his leg, not deep, but enough to have him bleeding. 

"Clay?" Mom's voice. His muscles stiffened. There she was, short and thin, dressed in the iconic Walmart uniform and a name tag proclaiming her name. 

Despite the events, that caught his eye. Mom was a child-care professional, she had training, certification, and a business. What on Earth was she doing here? 

"Are you okay?" Mom questioned.

"I--" He gathered his thoughts, "I need a spot," he managed to get out. Clay attempted a mom-smile, failing miserably.

"Is he going to have a seizure?" The fruity lady stood behind Mom, her eyes as wide as dinner plates, likely mirroring Clay's eyes, but for a completely different reason. She dug in her pocket and retrieved her smartphone. "I'll call 911." 

"No," Mom declared. "They can't do anything. Is the break room free?" Clay had to blink again, and he instantly regret it, flames licked at the tips of George's fingers. Clay muffled a scream. He instantly bent over, the notebooks in his arms creasing terribly. Let me go, he thought frantically wishing George could hear him. However, this was always a one-way street. He had no idea Clay existed, let alone what his magic did to him. _Please, I don't want to feel this, I can't take it._

He just wanted to tune George out. Even with his eyelids spread wide, the pain seared into his memory and the phantom of the fire clung to his hands. The images from his rapid blinking were absolute chaos, like switching the channels on the television and only catching a piece of a word here, or a bright shape there -- it was enough to throw his concentration right out the window but nothing more. He got enough of them, however, and was essentially stuck watching two movies alongside one another with no pause button in sight. He had no control, and oh what he would do to have a remote. 

A small group of curious passerby gazed at a distance. Not a whole lot, given it was 4pm (16:00) on a Sunday, but enough to make him yearn for the expanse of the parking lot. Though, the chance of having George make him stumble into the road gave him second thoughts. Who knew what would happen? He should've stayed home, could've asked Mom or Dad to just get him supplies on a grocery run. Served him right for thinking he could handle anything on his own. 

Clay managed to unzip his backpack, albeit shaky, and grabbed his current notebook, and unclipped the pen attached to it's cover. He should write down what he saw. Writing always helped. 

"I'm here." Mom comforted, her voice taking a soothing tone. "I'm taking an early lunch break. We'll go home the moment you can, just let me know. I'm right here." 

He held onto her words, clinging to them, holding them close. Everytime he blinked the horror continued: the smell of burning flesh, the tears rolling down his -- no, George's face. He was baking in the cool break room, gallons of sweat escaping his body. Pain lingered after he opened his eyes, the skin on his fingers remained intact, yet his brain continued to scream panicked signals of _fire! fire! pain!_ Clay looked at his hands, they were intact. Clay's world was safe. 

Until he blinked again. 

His grasp on the pen seized, and it clattered to the floor. He squeezed his hands to his chest. _Please._


	2. SMOLDER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Just wanted to preface this chapter by saying in replacement of Dream's sister's real name I will simply be using her psuedo-name 'Drista'. I apologise if this causes confusion, but I hope you enjoy the chapter! <3

**Trigger Warnings:**

-vomiting, swearing, mentions of seizures, angst, abuse, fire, mild spice

CHAPTER TWO - SMOLDER

George's skin curled away in a sickening display, before healing in fits only to burn anew. Damon held his arms in the fire. Fighting was no use, but his body thrashed anyway. He simply couldn't help it. 

"You... Have one fucking job." His step-father's voice slurred filling George's head, thumping against his heartbeats. "Just. Go... school. That's all you gotta do. Instead..." 

His mother was awake now. And she murmured something, her voice a whisper against the crackle of the fire. Was she crying? Was her hands pressed to her mouth in anguish, or was it the smell? _god, the smell._ She was across the room, beyond the flames, beyond _him. Despite_ her inability to do anything, George tried to focus on her. 

Instead his head craned back, and he screamed, wordlessly, until even that was silenced with _his_ hand against his mouth. 

\---

"I'm sorry." His mother said.

After he finished with George, Damon had snapped at her to go make him dinner as he stumbled down the hall and slammed his bedroom door shut, leaving the two of them in the living room. 

"I'll talk to him." George's Mom stood with her back straight and spoke as carefully as ever. Only the fingers that clutched one another beside her stomach gave away her unease. "I'll tell him it's Sunday, surely he got his days mixed up."

What good would that do? Would that take back the flames from George's hands? George couldn't bring himself to answer that question. Damon has been like this before, years prior. He'd drink too much as he did today, and get himself riled up, and of the people he had access to, George was the only one he could take his frustration out on without the repercussions. 

He'd need to be careful not to give him another opportunity. 

At the moment, he sat against the wall, his finger splayed across his knees, and studied his unscarred hands. Fresh, unsigned hair sprouted up along the backs of his hands, the fire making them flicker orange in colour. Long fingers. Pale, barely visible nails. They hadn't had enough time to grow back yet. 

It always took him a long time to heal, minutes upon hours. Still, he was grateful. Only the newly formed pink-tinted skin remained, along with the smell, which had crept it's way into George's hair, clothes, and the walls that seemed to press in on them. The scent of the fire failed to mask the stench, the coals smoldering sardonically. 

"I doubt talking to him will make any difference," George rasped with his dry throat. He chose his words carefully. He couldn't afford one wrong word, one too-angry infliction in his voice. 

Silence followed, and soon the snores of Damon managed to permeate the walls, the haunting sound chilling his bones. 

"I'm gonna make some food, you rest." His mother was always so dismissive of everything that man did. If it wasn't for George's bizarre ability to heal faster than your average Joe, he'd be dead ten times over. She didn't even seem bothered by what happened to her son. She was desensitized. She couldn't see the pain and suffering laid before her, George couldn't find it in himself to blame her though.

She shot up abruptly, and made her way to the kitchen. The soft pattering of tears followed behind her. 

George had no strength left, his body flopped haphazardly on the floor, and before he knew it, his vision turned black. 

\-----

The good thing about puking often enough, was that eventually you learned the trajectory of it, and thus could limit splatter. 

The bad thing was, you automatically shut your eyes in the process. In Clay's situation, that meant switching between the feeling of cool tiles and acid burning his throat to hearing George make noises in his sleep, his dream spicier than usual, leaving Clay with mental whiplash and some sort of voyeur guilt -- put simply -- terrible aim. 

"Clay?" Drista thumped a fist on the door. "You, uh, need anything?"

Clay wipes his mouth with the thin toilet paper. Then he yoinked off some extra, slammed his hand against the roll to keep it from spinning forever, and wiped up the small mess he made. "Did Mom send you?" He sounded pathetic. If it was instead Mom outside that door, he'd have cleared his throat and tossed a quick laugh, but, he didn't need to with Drista --

**\-- the figure was kissing George, slick lips on his neck, the dip of his collarbone --**

"--texted me to check up on you." Clay could hear the frown forming in her voice. "But if I can help..." 

"Probably not." He forced himself upright. His legs tingled with numbness from his knees downward. He barely kept his balance as he leaned in to flush, he half stumbled, half fell to the sink. He rose too quickly he realized, and was extremely light-headed. At least the bathroom was small, and everything was close together. He ended up crash-landing on the sink his elbows hooking it's rim. He was stuck between dry-heaving and heavy panting, he stared at the mirror. He looked pale. Not death-pale, but paler than his normal, which made the bags under his eyes contrast even more, sticking out like a sore thumb. 

Another surge of nausea punched him, and he pressed a fist to his sternum to soothe it. The moment reminded him of before, in the Walmart break room, and a pseudo-burn flared in his hands but swiftly faded away. He needed to just close his eyes until the nausea passed. If he had to deal with George's pain, surely he should be allowed the 'good parts' as well, no matter the guilt that heated his face -- 

**\-- George's hand ran down their side, heat spreading across his skin, he hardly felt the wall patterns pressing into his back or --**

\-- Drista shoved open the door. Good thing, too. Whenever Clay _wanted to_ be whisked into George's world, it took ages for him to wake up. 

"I heard you flush," Drista tried to justify. 

"I hate these pills." Clay shoved his head under the tap. Set cold. For more reasons than just cleaning up. Vomit and sex -- a combination being a surefire way to feel awkward around your nine-year-old sister. Not that she looked nine. Drista took after their dad, tall, unapologetic, and dark, with Clay bent over like this, they were almost the same height. 

"Weren't you feeling better?" she quizzed. "I thought you got used to those pills weeks ago." She fiddled with her gloves. Summer in Florida, and she wore _gloves._ Leather ones with the cut off fingers and metal spikes across the knuckles. Clay didn't know how she dealt with it. 

"I messed up the timing. Took two doses too soon to each other." The taste of acid pulsed mockingly in the back of his throat. He rinsed his mouth again. 

"Are these pills better than the old ones?" 

"Which old ones? There's plenty to choose from." Clay managed a laugh -- a little sister laugh, a big brother laugh -- but it was forced, and it seemed he wasn't the only one feeling awkward, since Drista was still fiddling with the spikes, twisting one by one. Drista wasn't one to hesitate. Then again, they didn't talk about his health too often, either. Clay preferred it like that. She shouldn't have to worry about her messed up brother, and his stupid supposed epilepsy.

That was the diagnosis: epilepsy. More specifically, a rare type of photosensitive epilepsy that triggered absence seizures upon blinking. Seizures that came with hallucinations, and appearently fake people who have wet dreams. The EEGs were really cool, however the symptoms didn't add up, and the so-called seizures didn't respond to medication -- but it helped to explain everything, from the overstimulation, to the flares of pain, and non-existent attention span. It had also explained why younger Clay would describe flashes of noise, people who didn't exist, and visuals he simply couldn't explain. 

He claimed those had gone away a long time ago, but the pain was impossible to hide. 

The numbness in his legs had now increased to full-on pins and needles, torturing his legs with every twitch of movement. 

_Eyes open,_ he told himself. He was relieved when Drista distracted him, pointing at the inside of his arm. "What's that?" 

He glanced at the faded ballpoint scribbles that danced across his flesh. _George_. He'd attempted to draw his face over and over, it wasn't often that George looked in mirrors and when he did in the middle of the night yesterday, Clay wanted to remember what he looked like. He recalls scrambling for a pen and not caring enough to snatch his notebook, drawing across his skin haphazardly. His ballpoint didn't vary line thickness properly, so the lines weren't as neat as Drista's or even George's, the drawings of the boy looked cheap, almost fake, as they layered overtop one another. 

Clay didn't want to linger on them. Drista should be more important than some fake boy he'd never meet, no matter how much that fake boy slathered himself across Clay's eyelids and took over this thought and that. "Nothing. Doodles." 

"Huh. Didn't you draw those in your journals, too?" 

Clay's blood ran cold. He tried to hold back his vicious tongue: "You -- read my journals?"

She scoffed. "How could I? I can't open your cabinet." Drista shrugged. "I walked past once while you were writing. I don't wanna read about your sexcapades, anyway." 

Drista had that fake casual air, as though she said that word every day and it wasn't just something she read online and thought was funny, but Clay didn't call her out on it. If she'd read his notebooks, she'd be asking completely different questions. _Who's George?_ And _Who's Damon?_ And _How come you aren't on stronger medication, Clay?_

"Okay," he said, still leaning against the sink, the counter stamping straight lines into his elbows. He cleared his throat. "Okay, sorry." 

"Anyways, Mom said she'd be home by five, so we'll eat early. We're having leftovers." 

"I thought we finished those yesterday." 

"That was Grandma's carnitas. We're having the Thai now." 

_From three days ago?_ Clay swallowed the words. The rule was that you didn't throw out food, unless it turned suspicious colours, especially food from relatives. 

"Sounds good," He gritted through a fake smile. 

\---

"Drista, do you really need those gloves _during dinner?_ " Mom said wearily. 

"Yeah?" Drista shoveled more rice into her mouth. "If I only wore them at school, it wouldn't be _authentic._ I take them off for the play rehearsals. Sometimes. The drama teacher mentioned they're looking for volunteers, by the by." 

Clay rolled a single kernel of corn around the border of his plate. As long as he played with it, he didn't have to think about the horrific idea of actually eating it. The spicy smell from Mom's beef was bad enough -- 

**\-- George had woken up from his dream in a cold sweat, not from being scared or anything, but the sheer intensity of it all left him shook. "Who was that?" George asked the stained walls. George hoped that --**

\-- throughout Mom and Drista's conversation, Dad's wide grin stretched even wider. All of Drista's weird choices in fashion, music, and friends seemed to amuse him. When his eyes fell on Clay, all he said was, "Don't forget to mention that nausea to Dr. Anderson tomorrow." 

"You feel like swimming again?" Mom asked. "I'm working tonight. I'm leaving in twenty minutes, if you'd like to go." 

Clay had nearly forgotten: Today was his standard swimming day. He'd miss going that afternoon, but the pool closed late. He smiled a Mom-smile. "I'm much better," -- he lies through his teeth -- "but I think I'll skip today." Swimming would take his mind off things, but after what he found out about Mom, he had other plans. "I appreciate it though." 

Drista gave a roll of her eyes and--

**\-- in the kitchen his mother was cooking, and George could smell the scent of eggs, bacon, and the grainy smell of toasted muffins. George smiled, and Clay's heart warmed with --**

"--he's just being polite, Drista." Mom tucked a stray hair from Clay's forehead behind his ear. He flinched at her unannounced hand entering his view. He was _sixteen,_ and she still did this -- she'd even check the gel in his hair before school or going somewhere, and some mornings she barged into his room to wake him up, and, before he knew it she'd be rummaging through his closet to toss trousers and a shirt onto his bed as if he were five years old. She wouldn't dare do that to Drista. 

Mom probably felt she needed to take care of him. Clay figured it was his seizures, and general illness, though he didn't know for certain. He complained about it once, two years ago, but when he saw her face... Ever since, he'd let her baby him. If she needed this, he didn't want to cause more hurt --

**\-- a loud noise --**

\-- Clay shut his eyes, noise meant bad things. Damon's temper, him getting hurt -- 

**\-- it was the bright sound of George's laughter that greeted him. "I'm starving!" At that moment, he felt his stomach grumble in agreement, George was so hungry he could --**

"-- Clay? Polite? I'm shook." Drista laughed. 

Clay took a second to replay her words, flip them, analyze them, everything. His parents would be waiting -- hoping -- for a smart-ass big brother response. Drista knew better. Her eyes only met his briefly before returning her full attention to the plate before her. 

It wasn't as if he didn't try. He laughed, which seemed to please Dad at least, but when he searched for a response, he came up empty handed. 

This act used to be easier. He has always been the ideal big brother, and perfect son, who might be aloof at times but it's not like he did drugs or smoked or hung out with the wrong crowd. Hell, he was teaching himself code and making a name for himself online. As far as they knew, he no longer has those hallucinations. 

But lately, people have been wanting more than hand-crafted smiles, and he didn't know what to give them. 

\--- 

Whenever Clay read, -- books specifically -- he lost his spot on the page, every page. Music was interrupted and paused but was low-key enough to be bearable, unlike TV, which got him zoning out within seconds. 

Homework? Out of the damn question. 

What Clay _could_ do was this: open his journals and report on every blink without thinking. England took up five dozen notebooks and counting. 

He wanted more than that. Something that was his. 

Sports was pretty much out of the running since day one, his Mom always worried over him getting seriously injured and his condition worsening. He'd get too distracted, anyways. He resorted to swimming, as it was the least dangerous sport, and didn't require interaction with others, which he really liked. The peaceful back and forth meant he could run on autopilot, which allowed him to process the back-and-forth between worlds easier. It was safe as well, he was under the watchful eye of the lifeguard, pleasing his parents. Besides swimming Clay adored coding and all things Minecraft -- though, admitting it sounds cringe, he simply loved the atmosphere and ability to create your own getaway. It's also where he met his closest friend, Nick. It made his parents happy too, they thought he had a hobby. 

Right now, Clay really wished he was swimming. 

Instead, he made his way upstairs after abandoning his food, leaving Drista to her studies and Dad to sort through bills and create angry letters about banned books at Clay's school. Clay made a beeline for the bathroom, where dirty laundry was stacked about knee-high in one corner, despite the quick load Dad ran yesterday. Mom normally handled the laundry. Working two jobs explained the growth of the pile. 

How had Clay not noticed? When had she started at the Walmart anyway -- and _why?_

Clay suspected he knew, Dad's insurance from his hospital administrator job covered only part of the latest pills. 

Clay had known they weren't in the greatest situation, just didn't know how bad. 

Three jobs to pay for anti-seizure meds when he didn't even _have seizures_ was ridiculous, and all he could do was fill notebook after notebook, swim three times a week, and grind on Minecraft. If George wasn't going to leave him alone long enough for him to help himself, he could at least help others. 

"Pfft, how difficult can a washing machine be, right?" The words came out sharp, angered. He lowered himself and started sifting through the pile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun with Drista's character this chapter, though, I don't think I'm going to be adding any other siblings to this fanfic, I just love Drista's personality, we love our alpha male lmao 
> 
> Have a great day, I'll see you next time!


	3. EMBER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small culture tid-bit:  
> Year 13 is the equivalent of the American Senior Year. (Commonly 17-18 year olds) 
> 
> Just a quick thank you! It's really nice to hear you guys are liking this so far, anyways, enjoy the chapter!

**Trigger Warnings:**

-swearing, mild blood, disassociation, angst, injury

CHAPTER THREE - EMBER

His leg ached from the Walmart aisle. 

Clay separated the whites from the darks just like he's watched his Mom do, keeping the articles of clothing he wasn't sure about to one side, and tossed the whites into the washing machine. Whilst that ran, he took down yesterday's laundry from the stairwell clothesline. He felt the clothes. Still damp. That wouldn't hurt, would it?

He sat on his parents bed -- the air conditioning bringing pleasant goosebumps to his exposed legs -- and tried to fold carefully, like Mom, but his movements were rushed and twitchy, making the sleeves stick out the wrong ways and uneven folds. The faster Clay moved, perhaps the faster George would eat his breakfast and get to school, too. The faster he'd be safe. 

Downstairs, Clay heard Dad on the phone --

**\-- George was getting dressed, pulling a blue hoodie over his head, his favourite, his hands were a light pink, and --**

\-- Clay grasped an undershirt tightly. He didn't want to be reminded of what happened. His heart raced --

**\-- Clay always got more of George's thoughts the longer he stayed, until he forgot there was ever Clay. But even when he was there for just a blink, his eyes closing for only half a second, he sensed him.**

**Not now.**

**Clay still saw the mirror through his eyes, still felt the chilly, clean fabric of his hoodie. Still smelled the eggs and bacon. He tasted the breakfast on his tongue, a comfortable fullness setting in.**

**But George wasn't there. His mind was empty.**

**_Move!_ Clay wanted to shout. **

**For three full beats, he stayed at the mirror. Thoughts beyond reach, his hands frozen pulling his hoodie over his chest. Then, as quickly as he'd left, he blossomed back into the haze at the edge of Clay's mind.**

**George blinked rapidly, looked at his reflection, then at his hands on his chest. His confusion didn't last long. He pulled the cloth over the rest of his exposed skin, and threw on his backpack, going --**

\-- Clay stared at the shirt now crumpled in his fists. Shakily, he spread it on the sheets. He could do nothing for George, anyways. He watched. He felt. That's it. 

Fold the sides in. Fold in double. He pressed the fabric flat, hoping to get out the wrinkles he created as he watched flashes of George slowly getting ready for school -- 

**\-- _Who was that in my dream?_ George was thinking, heat rushing to his face, _I... Liked it though,_ George sighed to himself, frustration clear in the way he walked. It wasn't often George remembered nor cared what he dreamed of, much to Clay's dismay. However, the memory of the rough hands against his skin left his brain fried. **

**He physically shook his head, attempting to clear his thoughts. His bag weighed heavily against his back, year thirteen was already almost over and he couldn't believe it. There's been so much, yet so little that has happened. George's thoughts always ran as he walked to school.**

**He couldn't wait to go to college and escape the Hell he called home.**

**Pain flared in George's side and he --**

\-- Clay jerked back. He reached for his side, unharmed under his shirt. The abrupt pain faded into a memory. Though, it wouldn't stay that way. Already, his eyes were dry and stinging. 

He dropped flat on the bed, reaching for his own backpack and fishing out the notebook and pen he had on him at all times. He blinked, keeping in a scream. He had to know what happened to George --

**\-- He was clutching his side. A grimace of pain taking over his features. The concrete contrasted to the soft hoodie. His bag feeling awkward. George coughed dryly as he gasped for air, the wind knocked out of him. He couldn't have screamed if he tried.**

**What fucking luck.**

**The vehicle careened away with a squeal, and he groaned. George was desperately trying to maintain consciousness, and he knew the pain would recede but _fuck_ was that one hell of a wake up call. He coughed again, stale air managing it's way into his lungs. **

**It was early. _Too early._ The world was hardly awake, and George had never been a morning person. He often left the house early in fear of Damon's wrath, but it turns out the world just wanted to watch him suffer. There wasn't a soul around to see the events of what just happened. **

**Though if he was honest, it didn't bother George, he knew he'd be okay.**

**_You've got to be kidding me!_ Clay wanted to yell at the top of his lungs. **

**George blinked slowly as the pain dulled and the bruising healed. He slowly sat up, being careful of what he assumed was a cracked rib. --**

\-- Clay favoured his side without thinking as he wrote. About the hoodie. The car. The pain, and the quiet of the morning. His handwriting turned crooked. He checked his side again, poking at the flesh, knowing he wouldn't find anything. 

Breathe. In, out. He was fine. George's pain was not his. Still, his exhaustion seeped into Clay, becoming heavier with each blink. He focused on keeping his writing legible, and made sure to take the pen away from the paper when he shut his eyes, trying to avoid ink blotches all over. --

**\-- George was looking at his bloodied hands, he managed to find a bench and relax as much as someone who just got hit by a car could. He sighed, his pink toned fingers now scratched from the harsh surface of the pavement.**

**His backpack sat beside him, relief of it no longer compressing his torso. He winced adjusting his body against the wood. George shut his eyes, breathing heavily, and for once, Clay felt weirdly at peace.**

**Then -- George disappeared. Blackness swept over him, pulling him out of Clay's reach. His body slouched against the bench --**

\-- Clay's eyes shot open. He looked around in a daze, at the glow coming in through the thick curtains, at the stacks of laundry surrounding him in blacks and browns, at the old-fashioned TV set bolted to the wall. Through the wall came the muffled rattle of the washing machine. 

George had this theory about how he could die: _hit fast, hit hard._ Which, made complete sense. If George didn't have the opportunity to heal, he'd die just like anyone else would.

And then? Maybe whatever magic of George's that shoved Clay into his world would disappear. He'd be able to live out his life. In his own world. In his own body. The concept itself he could hardly grasp. 

Or. He'd die, too. Clay's life has always been secondary to the British boy. That much he has always known. He was the clingy ex, the badly made copy, the hazy mirror image of his alter-ego life they had together. Maybe whatever connection George had forged with him was strong enough for Clay to die alongside him. 

Clay hated him. George had taken his life and locked it into his, and he hated George more than anything in the world for that. Yet, he didn't want him to die. Clay shut his eyes -- 

**\-- and he felt the wounds healing, his rib snapping into place, despite George's absence. If he'd have just come back as he had before, if his mind was just _here,_ he'd be walking again in seconds. It'd hurt, but he would have no other choice. They'd been in worse situations, and -- all he needed to do was come back like before, and -- **

**His arms convulsed as if a bolt of electricity went through them.**

**Muffled murmuring took Clay by surprise, until he felt a hand on George's body. His mind was still absent. Clay had never felt his mind so far gone, not even when he slept.**

**_Get up,_ he pleaded. _Get up!_**

**George's hands grabbed the wrist to the person who touched him. He was slow moving, but a glare formed on his face.**

**George moved, sure, but where were his _thoughts?_ **

**George looked up at the figure, seeing a woman before him, her hand on his shoulder.**

**"George?" She said, the all-too-familiar scent of Burberry taking over Clay's nose. Clay glanced behind her, seeing a few gazes meet his --**

**Clay looked back in front of him. Him.**

**_Him._**

**He jerked forward, he clenched his hands -- George's hands -- and guided his eyes, and opened his mouth, and pursed his lips. His breath -- George's breath? -- came in shallow succession.**

**He was doing this. These movements couldn't be a coincidence. Couldn't be. "Clay," he tried to say with unfamiliar lips.**

**He gaped at the sound of his name as it rolled off of George's tongue.**

**Heat shot through his blood, his face, George's face, was boiling.**

**"What?" The woman asked, the wind sweeping her voice with it, making it sound frail to his ears.**

**Clay was steering George's body. He could -- he was actually doing this -- and he couldn't believe it.**


	4. FLICKER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the short chapter today, I think I rewrote this at least four times, it's definitely not my best work, though I think this is about as good as it's gonna get. I promise next chapter will be much, much better. Thank you for reading, love you guys <3

**Trigger Warnings:**

-angst, injury

CHAPTER FOUR - FLICKER

George had been slouched over, a hand gripping his ribcage --

\-- then he was gripping his Mother's wrist. Glaring. The air no longer choked him, the world having opened back up. Storefronts and pubs lined one side of the street, and he tasted the stale air. He groaned before he took in his surroundings properly. His palms scraped open, just like -- just like a moment ago, he wanted to think, but somehow he knew more than a moment had passed. He'd spaced out again. 

"George?" 

His head snapped back to look at his Mom, her face plastered with something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Horror? Fear? _Disgust?_ His hand was wrapped around her wrist in an angry grasp -- how had he been able to do _that_ while blacked out? 

He let go, offering an apologetic smile. He'd almost finished healing, but that didn't stop the metal taste on his tongue or the burn inside his lungs. What he was sure was a broken -- or worse, fractured -- rib no longer sent pulsations through his body. Strange.

All right. Focus on Mom. Focus on how she wrung her hands soothing the red mark he left on her. On the now. Everything else came later.

"What're you doing here?" His words came out more accusatory than he wanted. He quickly rose, but stumbled over his feet, his knees scraping the sidewalk, and he hissed. Sweat stuck hair to his forehead, smoky tendrils obscuring his vision. 

He couldn't afford another blackout, but right now, he couldn't prevent one from happening either. He couldn't let it happen. He _wouldn't_ let it happen. He wasn't a liability. 

George let out a strained breath. He probably looked crazy, he felt the hairs on his head disheveled, and he felt grimy from the pavement. Not to mention the countless scrapes that blanketed his arms and legs. 

In. Out. Breathe George. 

He stood up -- slowly and pausing this time -- to meet his Mom's worried gaze, her eyebrows knit together. He couldn't care less about what was going through her head. The world was out to get him today, and he couldn't help but wonder what forces were at play for his endless torture. The blessing of regeneration, mixed with the wickedness of catastrophe, and bam, you had yourself a George cocktail. 

Clouds passed by, gloomily watching over George and his Mom. His mind was running, thoughts consuming whatever brain power he had -- that is, if he didn't have a concussion -- he hadn't noticed how long the pause between them lasted. 

"Do you hate me?" His Mom spoke with an oddly clear voice for such a loaded question. 

George shook his head automatically, an awkward laugh exiting his body. Forced is the only way to describe a sound so hollow. "Of course not." The words left his lips, but he was second guessing every syllable. George felt gross. They shouldn't be talking about this now. Or ever. 

He watched tension leave her shoulders. "You've dealt with so much. I owe you." 

Annoyance crept up George's neck, the emotion clouding his thoughts. 

"You want to know what I think? Honestly?" He kept the words cold, level and neutral, hiding his rage elegantly. 

"Yes! I've only ever wanted -- " 

"It's not that simple. You're my Mom. You _can't_ owe me." George's eyes darted to his backpack, to the bench. 

"I..." 

Her hands dropped to her sides, George studied her face, she bit the inside of her cheek. _You're hiding something._ The words stuck in his throat.

"Bye," George said simply, he threw the sack onto his shoulders and brushed past her. He didn't dare look back. He couldn't show that it bothered him. The hurt look she stared at him with plucked at emotions he'd rather go without. 

The worst part of it all, was the fact that she didn't even care. She never has. Of all questions to ask in that moment, and she wanted to know if he hated her? Appearently an _'I love you,'_ or a simple _'are you okay?'_ was too much to ask for. It made George's blood hot under his torn up skin. The only thing keeping him at a simmer was the breakfast they had only moments prior. The memory turned bittersweet.

The day had only just started and he was already exhausted. 

She didn't know about the hit and run. She didn't know of the blackouts, and when she did --

He wasn't gonna let that happen. If the blackouts were another condition the world has given him, cursing him for his healing, he'd need to learn more, put a stop to them before he got himself killed.


	5. KINDLE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop -- two chapters in one day? Yepperino! I felt really bad about leaving you with the last chapter, so I thought I'd make it up by writing two. Stay safe!

**Trigger Warnings:**

-angst, mention of seizure 

CHAPTER FIVE - KINDLE

Clay had moved George's body. 

He'd _talked._

Clay buzzed with energy and felt it build into a piercing headache at the back of his skull, but his pen moved effortlessly across the notebook's pages, and he couldn't stop now. George's curse -- magic -- was shifting. He'd gone from letting him witness his world from the backseat to offering him the wheel and gas pedal, and that meant --

Clay couldn't even begin to understand what that meant. 

George's blackouts gave Clay control. 

He didn't notice he wasn't alone until Dad stood right in front of him. 

"You look better." Serious. That didn't bode well. Their Dad always had this light touch to his voice, as if everything were a joke. Whenever it came to the down-and-dirty conversations his voice lost that and was replaced with a deep rasp. Dad saved the rasp for his rare Talks, _capital T._ "That's where that noise was coming from." 

Oh. The washer banged against the tile, and was making a high pitched whine. Clay slapped the notebook shut, though, he honestly wasn't worried about Dad peeking. As much as Drista took after Dad, the one thing she didn't inherit was the respect for privacy. "Sorry --"

**\-- George had finally made it to the entrance of the school, he trailed --**

\-- Dad shoved open the curtains to let the evening sun stream in. Slow, wide beams of light captured flecks of dust in their gaze. "Don't apologise," he said. "Your mother told me you saw her at the Walmart. Trying to help out?" 

Clay was desperately trying to listen, but his attention was sucked into the word his pen had just birthed. _Control._ The ink burned through the paper, leaving it's permeant scar in his hand and head. 

"I -- Yeah. I wanted to..." He gestured at the abandoned, endless piles of laundry. Some of his adrenaline ebbed away, sinking it's claws into his blood. He was going to refold the messier stacks, now that George's world was more relaxed, but how long had it taken him to get this far? _Some help he was._

"I figured. It's a good thing." Dad pulled up an old chair, which truly was just a display for his business jacket. "An odd thing for a teenage boy, but a good thing nonetheless." 

Clay found it hard to care about what a teenage boy was _supposed_ to do. He spent half his life in a different country. As George, he'd done laundry a million times. 

"I'm glad you're demonstrating initiative. But if I had a choice, I wish you'd take the drive and do homework, or even sneak out for a date. Wouldn't you like that better than laundry?" Dad eyed a pair of Drista's skinny jeans, Clay swallowed the warmth that spread across his cheeks recalling George's dream. 

He took care not to have his eyes closed for too long, but he couldn't tune out George completely. By now, George would be sat in class, dragging out supplies. Clay tried to ignore that, replaying Dad's words instead. 

_Did_ he want those things? They sounded nice in the abstract, but Clay had always been more of a realist, it was safer to care about what he could actually accomplish. 

Writing in his notebooks. Swimming. Minecraft.

Laundry.

"Listen. When she comes home and sees this... She'll be touched. Then feel guilty." 

"She's working two jobs now," Clay argued. "I'm the one who feels guilty." 

"You shouldn't. Which is why she didn't tell you. You need that medication, Clay."

"I don't! All it ever does is make me vomit my brains out. I know Dr. Anderson said to give it time but..." But no pills would ever work, was the truth. Every time, Clay tried to refuse them --

"We won't give up," Dad said sharply. "As long as you keep trying. We'll keep trying." 

\-- And every time his parents pushed. He would take the new prescription for a few months, deal with whatever side effects came his way, and stop once people realized he wasn't getting better. 

"Can I keep trying to do the laundry?" Clay wanted to smile, but Dad always had this knack for scrutinizing people, he was always paying attention, level and unflinching, it made Clay's smiles feel transparent and useless. 

"Just understand how it affects your mother." 

Clay shifted his eyes away. He was just trying to make himself useful, not add to the guilt that his Mom shouldn't even carry. 

"I should finish up some work..." Dad waved it off. "But I have five minutes." He gazed at the bed -- a stack of Clay's socks dotted the sheets with crooked folded tops. He reverted to his light tone. "You, uh... Want a lesson in folding?" 

\---

By the time Clay finished folding and hanging the freshly cleansed clothing, the adrenaline he had from affecting George's world had instead stabbed him in the back and become a heavy headache threatening to make him heave inside the bathroom, again. As he headed to his room, Drista called for him. 

Clay hobbled back. Her door was open a smidge. He could catch just a glimpse of Drista's reflection in the moon-shaped mirror Grandma had given her on her eighth birthday, when she used to spend every breathing moment reading up on astronomy. She gave the mirror a wounded look, including her eyebrows shooting to the ceiling, and her lower lip jutting out. "I can't stop you," she declared. "But, oh, it's _dangerous!_ " 

Appearently she wasn't talking to him at all. _Why would she?_ He pushed aside the intrusive thought. Clay shifted, allowing him to examine more details, specifically, her face. Strange enough, she didn't have a phone to either ear. Her eyebrows shot upwards comically again. "It's _dangerous!_ " She repeated. Her eyes suddenly caught his in the mirror. He'd been found. She squeaked. Within a single movement, she yanked her door open and stood before him. "Clay! Are you spying on me? Creep." 

"Your door was open." He grinned.

She picked at her collar. "Air conditioning's been stupid." 

"Were you practicing for that school play?" He abruptly recalled it being brought up at dinner. 

"What? No." She shifted her weight and scoffed. Drista's scoffs had just as much range as Clay's smiles. At the bottom was _Seriously?_ followed by _I'm really too cool for this but, whatever, I'll play along._ Somewhere at the top was _This is the most important thing in the world, but OMG I'll die if anyone finds out._ This scoff had seemed the closest to that last one, and he should probably talk to her about it, but his head hurt. He craved sleep. It would make his parents happy -- when he was sleeping there was less chance of seizures -- and it would let him keep tabs on George. He was looking at the whiteboard, and waiting for another blackout to happen. 

He'd controlled George. The memory made a smile tempt his lips, headache or not, but he sheathed the secret smile. Watching George was the last thing he should do. The last thing he should _want_ to do. 

He couldn't get sucked back in. He ended up in a coma twice before. 

"What's your role?" He patched together. 

She sighed "I'm this nurse character solving a mystery. There's singing and I have to be _vulnerable._ " 

The disgust in her voice almost made him laugh aloud. "Do you need help rehearsing, or need feedback?" 

If he couldn't help Mom without her feeling guilty, maybe he could help Drista. Using her this way may not be fair, but the more he had that he could focus on here, the less he'd think about George's world. 

Drista cocked an eyebrow. "Uh. Are you sure you can?" 

"I'm feeling pretty good on these pills," he lied. 

"Yeah, pretty high or something, but... I need someone with certainty. _You lie._ You lie to make people feel better." 

Clay considered lying about that too, but it wouldn't do any good. "I'll be honest, I swear."

Drista laughed. "Clay with opinions? This, I have gotta see." 


	6. SCORCH

**Trigger Warnings:**

-swearing

CHAPTER SIX - SCORCH

George held his pencil with a shaky hand. The tip hovered over the page of his notebook. His skull was pounding.

Initially he had pushed aside the events from the walk, the car, his Mom. _His Mom?_ George was piecing together the events, and suddenly he discovered a hole in the story.

Why on Earth was his Mom there? 

At the time, he thought nothing of it, but the more he considered it the more unsettled he became. The lull of the teacher only added to his zoned out state, allowing him to file through his brain picking out memories here and there.

He mindlessly drew two lines and a question mark. Two 'blackouts'. They had almost nothing in common besides him being anxious, but he wouldn't kid himself, he was always anxious, like an awful defense mechanism. Instinct. By rule of video game logic a third was bound to happen, at least that's what he told himself, or was it the anxiety? He couldn't be sure. 

_Okay,_ he thought, attempting to clear the fog that threatened to take him again. The first time was when he was getting dressed. He didn't even realize at first. Dismissed it thinking he had simply got lost in thought as he was now. 

That's impossible however, because he wasn't thinking _at all._

The second actually made sense, getting hit by a car isn't exactly healthy. His body needed time to recover from the impact, sure, but cutting from unconsciousness to attack mode? _Bloody hell._ That's some crazy sleep-walking. Or would it be sleep-talking? -- Sleep-threatening? -- His side ached at the memory. 

He erased the two tallys, looking at the question mark that remained. If it happened again, who's to say he won't do something crazy? Worst part of it all. He wouldn't remember. 

Hesitantly, he also erased the question mark. He'll just be careful, make sure it doesn't happen again. He wouldn't let it.

\---

_Ding! Ding! Ding!_

Everyone was already packed and ready to go, filtering through the door. George quickly scooped up his things and shoved them into his bag. 

"Bye, Mr. Harris." 

He hummed. "Bye George, have a good day." 

He walked out of the classroom, glad that lunch was finally here. George walked out the main entrance and began his journey back home. He had a surprise release since his last teacher was out sick for the day, and sent an email letting the kids know they didn't have to come at all.

Which was nice, since George's head already felt like mashed potatoes. 

Being extra careful, George watched the cars around him. 

_Fuck you!_ is what he wanted to shout at each one of them. He settled for doing it internally. 

There's no way he'd get hit by a car twice in one day. Surely not. 

His palms sweat at the thought, thinking he'd jinxed himself, but it wasn't long until he mentally screamed his last 'fuck you!' and arrived at the doorway of his home -- no, hell. Deftly taking out his keys he unlocked the door and shut it behind him. Immediately taking off his shoes, he desperately tried to make no noise. He normally never got home so early, and didn't know what to expect, though the shadowed walls were promising. 

Until he heard the gravel speak. The sound rattling George's bones. " -- worried about George. I can handle him, but that blackout..." 

The breeze swept in from the kitchen window, chilling everything in it's path, he flinched at the goosebumps rising but stayed dead silent. His heart crept upward and beat in his throat. Damon knew about the blackouts? Already? He needed to hear every word.

"Blackout? Only one?" The other asked. 

"According to -- " the breeze came harder, deafening George. "His mother told me out of concern. But it's not just that they might put her in danger -- "

"Yeah. It's about what happens if they get worse." George knew the voice but he couldn't place it. He inched away from the window, trying to keep from rubbing his arms. "Whoever's causing this will catch on and try again. Keep an eye on George. If it continues bring him to your brother's. In the meantime, I'll send one of us to help. I'd go myself, but I don't know how much George remembers. Jesse's new, though. Won't recognize her. London is a big place, anyway -- they don't need her there." 

London -- a large mainland city, George knew, north of Brighton. A common place for people to travel between by train. No wonder their trends caught on quickly here. 

Up until a moment ago, that was all George knew of London. 

Now, he was aware of another detail: someone named Jesse was there, and she had connections with Damon. 

_One of us,_ the man had said, and _I don't know how much George remembers,_ and -- acutely -- George realized why he knew his voice. 

Damon hesitated. "Let's wait. I'll handle things for now."

"But if -- "

"Better than recognizing Jesse." Damon's sudden rise in volume sent sweat barreling down George's back. His legs felt like jelly, It made him want to run.

"I need to go. How is she?" 

"She's doing fine without you."

A pause.

"Alright then. Stay away from the pubs for God's sake, we don't need any more slip ups." 

Damon groaned, and George could sense the alcoholic tendencies from where he stood.

" -- and don't you dare hurt him again or I _swear_ I'll -- "

He hung up. 

That was George's cue to get the fuck outta dodge. He had already slipped the shoes back on and door open, he swiftly left without locking the door. It was too much of a risk, and he figured Damon wouldn't notice anyway. Behind him, he heard the shatter of glass. 

He walked faster, disappearing into the streets, far away, farther, as far as he could walk without absolutely loosing his way home. 

Damon would know he'd listened in on him. He knew about the passing out and he probably knew a million more things he didn't and never would, and _that voice,_ and -- and he needed to calm down. Go eat lunch. When he returned, Damon had to believe he was at school and nothing else. 

He couldn't find out George had been listening. 

He couldn't find out George recognized that man's voice.

He couldn't find out George knew where he recognized it from.

He'd been a child with all his early teeth still, used to messing around. He'd never cared about what was going on around him -- the imminent divorce -- he'd been more concerned about collecting ladybugs and the way his elbow had healed after he'd cut it after falling from a small tree. 

He couldn't forget the man who helped him up. His voice had been kind but direct and had sounded almost -- not quite, but almost -- the same coming through the phone.

Damon was working with George's _father_.


	7. BLAZE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double Chapter Pog?

**Trigger Warnings:**

-swearing, mentioning of seizures, mentioning of vomit

CHAPTER SEVEN - BLAZE

Clay had been fading in and out of his U.S history test, worried about George, squirming at all the names of dead people listed on the quiz, and -- _whoever's causing this will catch on and try again._

Clay sat near the back of the classroom, by the window, and stared uncomprehendingly at the road stretching away from the school. A breeze swept sand across the blazing asphalt. 

Damon knew about the blackouts, hell he was working with George's real Dad and -- 

_Whoever's causing this will catch on and try again._

They were talking about Clay. Had to be. He'd thought he was dependent on George's blackouts to take control, but did their words mean it was actually the other way around? What if the blackouts were his doing -- Clay manipulating whatever connection George's faulty magic had established and using _it_ instead of letting it use _him?_ George suspected his panic and exhaustion had activated the blackouts, but Clay had panicked just as much, if not more.

Surrounding him, pencils softly scratched on paper. Chairs creaked, some scraped against the floor. Clay looked around at the classroom, dazed, then blinked at the near-blank quiz sitting on his desk. Mocking him. 

"I have to -- I have to go," he blurted before Ms. Whatever-the-fuck-her-name-was could answer, he was on his feet, weaving between the blocky desks. 

_You okay?_ Anna mouthed as he passed. They'd done a project together that summer. She either liked him or felt sorry for him -- Clay couldn't tell which -- but they hadn't talked in weeks, so it wasn't as if he could find out. He didn't answer, instead, his mind was stuck on _his_ words. If he could control George, he could talk to his Mom or something and leave a message. George would finally know he existed. 

"Clay," Ms. Fuck-off-already said sharply. "I thought your doctor's appointment wasn't until later. This isn't how -- "

"I'm sorry. I'll be right outside. I just need to ... " He stumbled into the hallway and shut the door behind him, muffling her ear-bleeding voice. She wouldn't follow him. She knew better than that. She'd tell the principal, who would contact his parents, who would say he had a seizure, and that would be that. He made his way to the lockers across the hall, looking as if he were avoiding a crocodile, -- and failing -- then lowered himself to the ground, the movement flaking off some rusty metal behind him -- 

**\-- George was still walking the street. His thoughts racing as much as Clay's, repeating the conversation he'd heard over and over. George didn't understand half of it. He honed in on what he did understand: that Damon knew about his blackouts, and that if they continued either Jesse would be sent, or he'd take him to London. They were close. It'd only take an hour or so.**

**What would happen there?**

**For all of George's thoughts, at least his world was peaceful, and his only pain came the cold that swept through his hair and his toes that felt somewhat numb. He couldn't get frostbite or anything, it would've healed straightaway. That made it easier for Clay to concentrate.**

**_Move,_ he thought, staring at George's hands as they scrolled through his phone. _I need to do this. I did before. If you'll just -- move --_**

\-- hung over one of the classroom doors was a clock, and Clay couldn't help but measure the time. Ten minutes. Twenty. He wasn't able to move George an inch. He brushed off a passing teacher's concern, ignored two seniors staring at him funny.

It wasn't working.

The door to Ms. Aw-shit-she-back's classroom opened, and Anna stepped out. Her eyes flitted to the bathrooms down the hall, then to him. "You all right? You were in kind of a hurry."

"Sick." Clay _was_ in a hurry. He didn't even stop to think or give an excuse.

"Sick as in, _blaaagh, meet my lunch?_ Or sick as in ... " Anna gestured vaguely. "Seizure?" 

"I'm _always_ having seizures," Clay said, suddenly sharp-tongued. Too sharp. Anna didn't deserve that. By now, itd been thirty minutes of nothing but sitting and shoving himself into England. Nothing was happening. Slowly, he let his lungs deflate. "Sorry." He breathed. "I'm fine. Thank you." 

"Huh." Anna shuffled her feet, as if she wanted to leave but wasn't sure how to. "Those small ones ... I've heard they happen every time you blink?" 

"Not every blink,' Clay lied flawlessly. "But often enough." 

"Freaky."

"People can have hundreds of seizures a day. It's on the Wikipedia." Clay didn't want people not to believe him. If anyone realized he didn't have epilepsy, they'd want to put him through testing that Dad's insurance didn't cover, and his parents would pay for it anyway, no matter how far in debt they already were after all those damn pills and EEG's. 

"And Wikipedia never lies, right?" Anna looked slightly more at ease, her arms less tense. 

"Never." Clay gave the smallest of smiles, his mind still on George -- 

**\-- who was headed into a small Mom-and-Pop store that sold handmade breads, pastries, and deli meats. George's stomach groaned in protest --**

\-- and tried to pay attention to Anna, truthfully, he wasn't accustomed to this. Whenever people made rare, awkward attempts at small talk, they avoided mentioning the seizures. Anna didn't seemed bothered. She didn't even seem _curious,_ like some of the freshmen who would walk up and gape at him; she seemed _interested._ Clay went on despite himself. "The small seizures happen most of the time. The big ones come every few weeks or months." Whenever George got injured. Whenever Damon got angry. 

"Wow. Sucks." 

"I can't complain though. I'm safe as long as I'm careful." He hesitated. "Other people have it much worse." 

"Safe," she repeated. It likely sounded odd coming from the kid who almost died a year ago. 

"And you feel them coming?"

"Yeah. It's called an aura." 

"Cool. I'll definitely check out that Wiki page." Anna gave this weird half-assed salute. "Gotta go, or Teach will bite my head off." She jogged off before Clay could answer. Glad he wasn't the only one who couldn't remember her name. He watched her leave, and only when she disappeared into the girls' bathroom did he realize this was the longest conversation he'd had with a classmate in weeks.

The thought should excite him or bother him -- he didn't know which. He felt neither. _That_ bothered him. He grimaced, rubbed a hand across his face, and returned to England.

\---

"The meds aren't working." the sooner he stopped wasting his parents' money the better.

"It's a little early to determine that. This medication can sometimes need months to take effect." Dr. Anderson was used to Clay by now. He'd told her the same thing a dozen times in the past few years. Next, she'd tell him not to give up hope, that all these medications were different and who knew what he'd end up responding to, and he'd sit on that plush chair in her office and try not to let his doctor-smiles turn into doctor-grimaces. he heard the exact same thing from Dad the day before, and he was tired beyond anything --

**\-- by now he had a sandwich in hand, thunder suddenly tearing itself through the skies --**

" -- a positive attitude. You'd be surprised how much difference it makes."

"Of course." Smile. Don't forget to smile. Never forget to smile. "You're right." 

"Any side effects?" Dr. Anderson studied something on her bulky laptop, then wiped at a smudge with her thumb. "We can adjust the dosage if it's bothering you. Your blood levels came back within therapeutic ranges, but there's wiggle room for change." 

"Headaches. Tired. As per usual." 

"Any behavioral changes? Nausea? You've always been prone to that." 

"It's fine." Clay's tongue danced with the half-lie. Yesterday's endeavor with the toilet had been his own damn fault, but Dad did say to tell her. 

"I threw up yesterday. I'm better now. I just messed up on the dosage, and ... " His breath caught. 

Anna had been right: he'd been in too much of a hurry. Throwing himself into England wouldn't do anyone any good. He figured since he could finally do something -- but he should've paused, should've thought. 

Why the blackouts _now?_ What had changed?

Two doses. Too close together. _That_ was what had changed. 

This time nothing about Clay's smile was fake. "I think," he started, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears, higher-pitched and unusually excited, "yes, thinking back, maybe I had less seizures after that. After I took the extra dose." He kept his eyes wide open. He couldn't risk George yanking him back in now. In this moment. 

He studied Dr. Anderson's face for a reaction, something, anything in her eyes, her mouth, to show she believed him.

He had to sound convincing. He licked his chapped lips, dully noting that he needs to get more lip balm. "I might be wrong. I'm probably imagining it. I don't want to ... " 

"No, this is good Clay. This is great! It's the first time we're seeing a difference." 

He could almost see '+100 Deceit' above his head. 

Clay had swallowed a pill at lunch, just an hour ago. The moment he stepped out of her office, a shit-eating grin spread on his face, he yeeted his backpack around to his front and rummaged for another. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, ah, ah! Don't you try and lick them now. Dry ass lip havin' ass. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	8. SIMMER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats Dream on the Streamy's! So proud of everyone in this community, and how much inspiration, love, and creativity I have seen come from it. Keep being absolute Pogchamps, and enjoy the chapter <3

**Trigger Warnings:**

-swearing, implied homophobia, fluff, angst

CHAPTER EIGHT - SIMMER

  
George had to tell his Mom what he'd heard.

Outside, the thunder crashed, the sound rattling the windows within the small shop. George grimaced at the loud noise. Handing the shop-keeper his cash, he looked outside. 

Snow danced from the sky, flakes crashing against the building, wind sweeping them into the crevasses between the bricked exterior. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. 

Breaking himself out of his trance, George turned to the woman. "Mind if I wait out the storm in here for a while?" He gestured to his attire, "I'm uh ... Not exactly -- " 

"It's quite alright," she smiled giving him what he could only describe as a fond motherly gaze. "Stay as long as you need it's not a problem." She finished counting the money, handing him his change. 

"Thank you." George felt a sense of security. 

"Of course, If you need anything else, let me know." 

George nodded taking the sandwich in his hands. He was tired, hungry, and honestly? He was glad for the thundersnow outside. Despite it being scary, he enjoyed the excuse to not go home. 

He sat down at one of the small bistro tables, setting his lunch down as well. He unfolded the hand-wrapped BLT, and immediately took a bite. George chewed, savouring the hot crispy bacon. 

"Mmm." 

He opened his eyes that he had subconsciously closed, and looked out the window watching the snowflakes. Warmth spread from his chest, and he welcomed that odd sensation of coziness when you watch cold weather out a window. The notes of a soft orchestra hummed around him, and George felt as content as ever. 

Before he knew it, the delicious BLT vanished and his hands came up empty. The shop-keeper appeared beside him holding a cup of tea. 

"It's on the house." 

George was dumbfounded. 

"No -- I can't -- "

She placed the tea down in front of him, disregarding his protests. 

"Milk and sugar are located at the front. I'm sure you don't mind black tea." She pointed to a counter with an array of additives. 

"I ... Thank you, again," he added. "I really appreciate it." He looked into the cup, a tea bag hanging out the side of the steaming water. 

"Tea always tastes better on days like these," she smiled, and turned to walk away. "Enjoy." George hummed in response. The hospitality of the woman was unexpected, yet welcome. He mentally noted the business, promising to come back on another day. Whenever the weather wasn't garbage. 

He took the tea to the counter, being sure to not spill a drop. Adding in some milk and sugar, he stirred the beverage and took a sip. It was warm against his chilly insides, and the sensation spread throughout his body. George returned to his seat where his backpack sat against his chair, and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his socials, sipping on the warm tea. 

Eventually, his head bobbed against his arms, and his heavy eyelids overtook him. 

\---

He was running outside, down a road leading into the woods. Under torn branches, dirt and leaves were everywhere he looked, tree roots had burst through, displacing slabs of forgotten stone. He couldn't tell how much of the mess was from the storm and how much from neglect. No one seems to take this path, the way looking to have only been used by animals. 

George jogged around a fallen tree blocking his path. Enough earth clung to the roots to fill half a granary. The storm had been brief but intense, as it usually was in England. 

"Mom?" he called aloud once near the creek. Despite the post-storm chill, sweat dabbled at the base of his skull and pooled by his hips. Overturned earth warned him of some animal, and when bushes nearby rustled, he tensed, relaxing only when he saw a tall shape step out. 

"We need to talk," George stated. 

The figure lowered something they had been carrying to the ground and ran their fingers over George's arm, sending a tingly-hot feeling. They kissed George's forehead, then stepped back giving him space. It wasn't his mother, he realized. His mother never showed him affection like this. 

"About your blackouts?" 

George told them what he'd overheard. What it meant. "We have to find out what they're doing," George said, his hands trembling. "How long they've been working together ... We have to tell Mom." 

" _Mom_ is your priority?" The way the name bordered on revulsion even as their body stayed stony. 

"I didn't say that." 

"Look. It doesn't matter what Damon's doing or why. All right?" 

George shook his head and looked past the figure at the forest -- branches saggy with snow, the sky still cloudy overhead. The creek was icy and looked freezing. Storm-damaged mushrooms the size of George's head bulged from the ground peeking through the snow. 

"You can't stay for her." The figure said. 

"We've talked about this." George stepped away. His boots sank in the powder snow. "It's not about keeping her safe. There's nowhere we can go." 

"Is that all it is?" 

"Just say it," George said. Then he wouldn't be the one to bring it up. He could deny it and be done with it. 

"I see what dreams you have." 

What -- what _dreams_ he had? He breathed deeply, the bitter scent of frozen moss filling his nostrils. 

"What dreams?" 

"Oh really?" It scoffed. 

"Don't be like this. Don't play games."

George could hear the smile on their face. "Me? Playing games? C'mon George be honest with yourself." 

"It's not that simple." 

"Sure it is! Just tell her -- " 

George cut them off before they could finish. "If I tell her ... I'll have to run away, I _won't_ be able to stay her son anymore."

"Do you want to be?" 

"It wouldn't end well," George stated. 

"But do you want it to?" Normally at this point the figure would grow frustrated. Now, it's words sounded smaller, turning it's questions into a plea. 

"I care about _you_. Okay?" George stepped in and pressed his lips to theirs -- no, his. They lingered in the kiss, staving away the chill, which rolled back in the moment they separated. "That's what I want," he said once there was enough room between them. It was true. He wanted him. He wanted his teasing and his wide grins and his full lips and the way he'd squirm and laugh when George trailed kisses along his hip bone. 

George didn't want these endless arguments. 

"I want you, too." He pressed his forehead against George's. "You and me, away from them. That's _all_ I want."

George wished he could say the same thing back. 

\---

Suddenly George shot up, spilling the now-cold tea on the table.

 _What the fuck?!_

George was a hurricane and a half on the inside, he was practically a living error message. He couldn't believe how vivid, how absurd, and how _real_ that dream was. 

His heart was racing, his face red with shame. 

Why did it feel like he knew them? -- no, him. _Uggh,_ George hated admitting it. He hated it all. He hated himself. He hated -- 

"Are you okay, boy?" The woman asked, bringing along some napkins to wipe up the mess he made. 

"I -- Uhh, y-yes I'm alright, just dozed off." The words sounded like a question as he took some napkins to help clean. "Thank you." 

She laughed at him in this warm grandmother way, and he couldn't help but laugh with her. 

"You're welcome here anyday, what's your name, boy?" 

He was surprised at the request, "George, you?" 

"The name's Ruth, pleasure to meet you George." She smiled towards him, and continued to wash the table. "Would you like a new one?" She referenced to the tea.

"No, no, I'm good, thank you." 

She laughed again before finishing up and returning behind the counter. 

George noticed the time, it had barely been an hour, despite the dream feeling like an eternity. He rubbed his face with a hand in disgust just thinking about it. 

The woman -- Ruth, returned with a business card. "You seem like a nice boy, if there's ever anything you need, you can contact me. I have a feeling I'll be seeing you here in the future." 

George nodded and tucked the business card away. "Thanks, Ruth." 

For once, he had an interaction with another person that _didn't_ feel like agony. She gave him space when he needed it, yet not too much where he felt the boundary of being a stranger. 

"I'll be honest, It's not often we get customers, so whenever you get the chance you should bring some friends for a meal here." She cleaned her counter absentmindedly. "It'd be nice to see some life in here again." It was almost a murmur, but George caught it from where he sat. 

"Oh! Amy would get a kick out of you, let me go get her." Before George could even respond she yeeted into the kitchen behind a door. She promptly returned with who he assumed was Amy. 

"Amy, meet George. George meet my wife, Amy." 

Everything happened so fast that he almost didn't catch it. 

_Wife?_


	9. FLARE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just within this past week I have seen the numbers of Dreamnotfound fanfics explode, >150 works have been published since last week. That's crazy! Therefore, I am so appreciative of you guys taking time to read mine, (of all works out there) It truly means the world to me. Thank you for giving me a reason to write, and thank you for all the amazing comments! Keep being fantabulous and stay safe, much love,
> 
> Dehsinrat <3

**Trigger Warnings:**

-jealousy, implied homophobia, fluff, angst

CHAPTER NINE - FLARE

  
"How come you're not rehearsing with your friends?" Clay asked, perched in Drista's desk chair. The extra pill would need time to kick in. He had a hard time sitting still, though. He kept pushing the notebook on her desk back and forth and tapping his foot and spending a second too long in George's world -- 

**\-- Amy was a small lady, her dark hair curled around her face, in an adorable fluffy way. George smiled, "Nice to meet you, Amy."**

**Inside, George was flipping the word over in his head, thinking that he must have heard wrong.**

**There was this glance that the two shared, he couldn't quite put his finger on it, and --**

" -- I am." Drista frowned. "Our drama teacher makes us rehearse together in the gym, but we don't have a lot of time since we also have to build the set. That's why we need volunteers. I asked Mom, but she's too busy working."

Clay held back a cringe of guilt. "Rehearsing with your friends at home, I mean."

"I just don't want to make a big deal out of it. What if I screw up?" 

"You won't. I promise."

Drista fought a tiny surprised smile. Straight teeth pushed into her bottom lip to keep it from coming out. Clay couldn't recall the last time she'd taken anything he said so seriously. For a moment he didn't know what to do with himself. 

"Thanks. Um -- so I'm in the emergency room, and a girl just went missing from her room ... " Drista stood by her bed, chest puffed out, ignoring schoolbooks and bags scattered around her feet. "No!" she bellows. "I have to know where she went -- "

**\-- Amy moved her hands deftly, the language flying over George's head. "Amy says it's a pleasure to meet you," the short woman smiled warmly at him.**

**His eyes were likely the size of dinner plates, and from the laughter he heard from Ruth accompanied with Amy's silent one, he figured his assumptions were correct.**

**"Amy has Aphonia, so she can't speak, but she can hear and understand you just fine."**

**"Woah." It was a lot to take in.**

**Amy signed towards George, despite him not understanding a single movement.**

**" _My wife, Ruth, has been by my side for as long as I can remember, she's the reason I smile._ " Ruth 'awe'd and kissed Amy's cheek, a blush of shyness blooming from the area. Ruth was kind, and had translated for him, which he was grateful for. Suddenly George realized he had heard it correctly.**

**_Wife_ \--**

" -- _know_ I'm a nurse! Don't tell me what my job is!" Drista took a threatening step forward -- 

**\-- George's heart raced. He suddenly felt hot, and his blood was rushing in his veins, it was loud, so loud. He worried that they could hear it too, _they could, couldn't they?_ The way adrenaline pounded in his ears because of what he just witnessed, he was certain it was obvious. Gallons of sweat oozed from his skin, and the thundersnow outside became a distant memory. Clay fought off his fear, because he couldn't let it crawl into him, he had to stay an observer, shouldn't even be here --**

" -- you awake?" Drista was gathering thick bunches of hair into a ponytail, her movements irritated. Clay found himself staring somewhere over her shoulder, swallowing as he tried to get a grip. Why was his throat so dry? He shouldn't be letting George get to him so much. 

"Right. Sorry." In his absence, his hands has pressed onto the notebook enough to warp the paper. Ink dotted his fingers. He flattened the pages, the familiar paper grain a comfort. He'd meant to jot down notes to show Drista he took her seriously, but hadn't written a word. "You're doing great."

"Really?" Her hands dropped to her sides. She sounded suspicious yet hopeful. Did she care that much about his opinion? Why did that thought make him so damn uncomfortable? "I'm trying for a Michelle Rodriguez vibe, you know."

Was he supposed to know that name? Dad had Rodriguez family down in Mexico, but Clay guessed Drista meant an actress rather than that great-aunt they'd met as kids. 

"Would you -- if you saw me in a movie ... Nevermind. You don't have to do this if you don't care."

"I do care," he said immediately. That wasn't true. But he _wanted_ to care. He was _trying_ to care. 

He shoved George from his mind. George's fear wasn't his. He wanted to stay here, in the safety of Drista's tiny room with its dusty shelves and dorky mirror and neon gym bag dumped in one corner. The colour -- George would have thought was yellow. He scolded himself for such a thought. He didn't want to go back, but -- 

**\-- In the bathroom he looked himself in the mirror, the way that they were so perfectly _happy._ It drove George crazy, and he couldn't figure out why. He breathed shoving the nasty emotion away. He hated that feeling, more than he hated himself. **

**_Jealousy._ **

**It seeped into his heart, and dug it's talons in without remorse. It kidnapped his thought process, and all George wanted was to calm down. It was such of a disgusting emotion.**

**Seeing Ruth kiss Amy, he couldn't help but long for the same. He clenched a fist and then let it go, and just as fast as it came -- it was gone.**

**George had successfully swallowed every last drop, and apathy quickly crept into his bones. He was terrifyingly good at throwing away emotions, especially when it came to something --**

\-- he needed to say something, and fast, because the way Drista looked at him, he knew he'd blown it. Their second practice session and he had spent half of it with George. He wiped sweat from his hairline and stared at the notebook as though studying his earlier, non-existent notes. "You might be over-doing this scene. You're shouting a lot."

"But I'm talking to my boss. I'm supposed to hate him. I told you: my character thinks he knows something about the missing patients. Oh, and she's scared because he might have left those voicemails." 

"I'm not seeing fear." He focused on Drista with all his might, to the point where his staring would probably creep out anyone else. "You're just shouting."

"You said I was doing fine!" 

"You are. I'm impressed." Clay rushed to reassure her. He promised to be critical, though. "I just think you can play that fear more convincingly. Fear, true fear -- you can't cover that up. There's always that voice at the back of your mind: _What if I'm not safe?_ It changes everything." He didn't know what he was saying. He rubbed his thighs while he talked, hoping to keep himself from blinking. He didn't want to mess up again -- 

**\-- he watched them kiss, and hold hands, and kiss again. Amy would sign something and Ruth would giggle. George felt his apathy crack -- just the smallest bit. And before he knew it, he found himself wanting the same for him, for some cute guy to kiss him like that, and no, _no,_ Clay didn't want to know any of this -- **

" -- true fear?" Drista didn't move. Clay wasn't used to her so still. Normally she'd fiddle with her hair, or cross her arms, or her eyebrows would move strangely across her forehead. Now, her eyes drifted to his face. He scratched the back of his neck self-consciously. Drista should be blowing him off by now -- he got plenty of concerned and worried looks from their parents already. He liked seeing Drista this way, as far removed from his issues or George's panic as possible: making over-the-top proclamations, waltzing around her room with a toy stethoscope around her neck ...

But George still -- always -- took him over. It wasn't fair to Drista. Clay rubbed his face. "True fear is the kind you can't reason away. It makes you want to puke. To do anything, anything except face whatever it is you fear. And every time you think of it, even for a flash, part of you panics." 

Drista still didn't move. "What if you're really angry?" 

Clay thought of George, who pushed his anger down so deep it couldn't escape. He thought of George's Mom, who let it burst out in bits and pieces. He thought of Damon, who gripped George's hands and -- "It depends, I guess." As he kept speaking, the words came more easily. This was about a school play, nothing more. "You could make your character shout, then step back, like she realizes what kind of trouble she's getting into." 

"Okay. Thanks." Clay didn't recognize Drista's high-pitched nervous laugh. He freaked her out, didn't he? He breathed deeply, then let the air escape. He should go to his own room, see if the extra medication was working the way he'd hoped. 

Or, perhaps, he should check on his friend Sapnap, he could feel the discord notifications dinging in his skull already. 

"I'm nauseous," he lied, and hated himself for it. "I should go." 


	10. BURN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Sorry for the late update, (finals and school work, you know the struggle) I will be switching between Sapnap and Nick when referring to Sapnap -- though, they are the same person -- Sapnap will also be referring to Clay as Dream, sorry if it causes confusion, I just feel it is better for the story. Enjoy!

**Trigger Warnings** : 

-swearing, mentions of epilepsy

CHAPTER TEN - BURN

Clay huffed as he sat down at his old computer, a quick build his father had made him for Christmas some years ago. What Clay needed right now was a distraction, something to keep his mind busy, even if his eyelids wanted to take that away from him. 

_He needed Nick._

The computer hummed to life, and a small smile made it's way onto his face. He'd almost forgotten how much he loved Minecraft. The familiar blocky world was an oasis for him, it was a place where he could do anything without consequence. 

The best part of it all? No one there knew him, knew his past, or whether or not he was the infamous 'epileptic kid.' 

Except for the people he chose to tell. More specifically, Sapnap. 

They had met about three years ago by now, and Clay chuckled upon recalling the memory. 

He had been messing around on Mcpvp, -- a well known Minecraft server chain with game modes such as Capture the Flag, 'Hunger Games', and Kitpvp. 

He dully remembered the fall of Mcpvp, and how few people played it at the time. 

_Sapnap: Hey, anyone wanna talk and be friends?_

Clay usually wasn't one to use in-game chat -- unless he was trolling -- however, George had been in a good mood that day, and so was he. 

_Dream: sure_

From then on, Sapnap was like this thorn in his side, always being present and wanting to play with Clay. 

But if he was being honest with himself -- he enjoyed it. Though, there's no way in hell he'd admit it. Certainly not out loud.

It'd boost Sapnap's ego.

Their friendship had seemed scripted; two dudes meet on a Minecraft server on one fateful day and become best friends for life. Clay didn't mind though, most things felt unreal to him anyways. 

It wasn't until last year he had told Sapnap about his seizures, nothing too specific, but enough to appease him. Sapnap was extremely supportive and didn't actually react all that much, giving him a simple "all right," In reply. Sapnap had always been open-minded and lacked judgement for others, despite being hypercritical of himself. He admired that about him.

He was thankful for it, and their friendship bloomed. 

Clay sighed. For once he had managed to get lost in his thoughts instead of George's thoughts. 

The computer lazily waited for him to realize what he was doing. Clay eventually took the cursor and found himself staring at Discord. 

_25+ notifications._

Clay snickered to himself, _l_ _ooks like someone was looking for attention._

After a quick scroll through the gibberish that was Sapnap, Clay decided it would just be best to give him a call. 

It was a fraction of a second before he answered. 

"-- DREAAAMMM!" Clay cringed at the volume and turned him down. 

"Good lord _Sapnap,_ I think I'm gonna need hearing aids after that." Clay was grinning like a mad man. 

He missed the antics of his best friend. 

"That's what you get for ignoring me for _two weeks!_ TWO WEEKS!" Had it really been two weeks already? Clay scorned himself for not keeping track of the time properly.

"I'm _sorry_ that I actually have a life, unlike _some_ people." 

Sapnap dramatically gasped, "alright Mr. Co-Owner developer boy." 

It was Clay's turn to fake gasp, "how dare you try to use my title in a derogatory way!" 

They both burst into laughter, the sound warming Clay. The two had been on the staff team of MunchyMC for some time now, picking fun at one another occasionally. 

"You're just jealous!" 

"Am not! At least I actually _do_ stuff, you just screw around!" Sapnap defended himself. 

"Pfft, as if! You of all people should know how busy I get. I do more work than you know -- it's all top secret, confidential ... stuff." 

"Yeah -- 'stuff,' like ignoring me for two weeks!" Clay could hear the smile on his face.

"I said I'm sorry!"

They laughed again, and there was a comfortable pause. 

"I missed you man." The other male's tone affectionate.

"I missed you too Pandas -- I mean ... Sapnap." 

Sapnap scoffed on the other end, "wanna play some bedwars on Hypixel _DreamTraps?_ " 

"Sounds good to me." Clay said with a grin. He was looking forward to absolutely wrecking a bunch of twelve-year-olds. 

\---

It wasn't until a decent time later that Sapnap had decided to call it a night. Sapnap's Mother coming in to tell him dinner was ready, earning a few mocking jokes from him. Clay was thankful for the interaction, he didn't realize how much he needed it until it was too late. Clay was reluctant to let him go.

"See you tomorrow? -- " 

**\-- George was home now. The adventures with Amy and Ruth had been unique and short-lived. The burning sensation of jealousy and wanting sizzled in his mind. The snow had melted, and now splotches of it lay about here and there. He knew it'd be gone by morning.**

**Clay wanted so bad to reach out and touch it -- it doesn't snow in Florida, and it always looked so magical through the eyes of George. Even if George wasn't exactly as much of a fan of it as Clay was.**

**Before he knew it, the snow was in his hands. _What?_ **

**It was cold and the texture was like nothing he'd felt before. It pricked at his nerves, the cool surface penetrating his skin and freezing him to his bones.**

**His hands -- no, _George's_ hands.**

**Quickly, and abruptly, he remembered whose body he was in, and attempted to return George to his original spot and --**

He rubbed his palms together instinctively. The Discord call was empty, the response from Sapnap lost to the abyss. 

_Damnit._

It was as if he couldn't get a single moment to himself. Luckily George's walk home was easy enough to block out, despite Clay just controlling him. 

Wait. 

_He just controlled George._

It seems the medication is doing it's job, though, that means he'll have to be more careful. 

Without even thinking, Clay had took over George and it was bound to freak him out. He hoped George didn't notice. Hopefully, if he was lucky enough, he put George back in the right spot and he'd just step up the -- 

**\-- blinked, lost in thought. His hands colder than before.**

**George walked into the house, more carefree than normal. The house felt solemn, and empty. The presence of Damon was stale.**

**George made his way to his room and shut the door behind himself. Already, he missed Amy and Ruth.**

**He had been avoiding it all day, and some would even say he's in denial, though Clay never forgot.**

**It was George's birthday. November 1st.**

**He was turning nineteen this year.**

**He felt _old._**

**More importantly, he was ready to go to university and leave this place behind. George was fairly knowledgeable in computer science, more than your average Joe.**

**He enjoyed coding, and he used that to his advantage. He planned on making a career out of it.**

**Minecraft was a commonplace for him to spend his time, though today he didn't feel like it.**

**He had his potato of a computer on, reminding himself to purchase a new one when he could, with Minecraft pulled up.**

**He stared at it for some time, and ultimately closed the application.**

**George picked up his phone and took out the business card from his pocket.**

**With his parental units gone, he'd figured that he could enjoy his birthday. It's not like they had anything planned for him anyway. if only --**

Clay felt relief surge through him, it didn't seem as though George noticed. 

He released a breath he didn't realize he was holding. 

"Dream?" 

Clay lept in his skin, making his chair tilt back a little too far. The impact of the floor throwing whatever fatigue he felt before out the window.

"Ow..." He groaned. 

Sapnap's worried voice came through his headset, "you okay, Dream?" 

Clay got up and fixed his chair, rubbing his face to hide his embarrassment. 

"Yeah I'm fine, you scared me."

A moment of comfortable silence passes between them. Both of them processing information.

"Why are you still in the call?" 

Of course Sapnap would make sure he was okay, he was always like that. Clay mentally face-palmed at the fact that he didn't leave earlier, who knows how long he's sat in there? 

"I forgot." He blurted.

Clay wanted to shrivel up and disappear after that lame excuse. For an expert of deception, that certainly wasn't his best work.

"Hmm ... I don't buy it, but hey, if you need me man -- I'm here to talk." 

Sapnap was such of a nice guy, but there was no _way_ he'd ever understand that there's this imaginary dude in his head who antagonizes him every single day. Clay simply couldn't talk to Sapnap about it, if just out of fear of scaring away his friend. 

Even if Clay wanted to talk about it, he wasn't sure where to even begin. 

"Thanks, Sapnap. I appreciate it." 

"Anytime, home skillet." His bubbly voice alone was enough to make Clay feel better. 

"Home skillet?" 

"Yeah man, _home skillet._ "

Clay figured it was some meme that went over his head. He couldn't help but laugh, goodness he was doing that a lot today. 

"Whatever you weirdo, I'll talk to you later." 

"Byeeeeeeeeee -- " Clay left the call, cutting off the dragged out farewell. 

He watched Sapnap leave soon after. 

Clay gazed at Discord, then shut off his computer, the fans stuttering to a stop. His Mom never liked it when he looked at screens for too long, and he hated making her worry over --

**\-- texted Ruth, letting her know it was him, and asked if he could hang out with them for the day, promising to purchase some food of theirs.**

_**Ruth: Of course! I don't think I've seen Amy that excited in days. It'd be a pleasure.** _

**George was suddenly enlivened. He took his backpack, shoving some gloves inside just in case, and threw it onto his shoulders. He quickly scribbled a note for his mother:**

_**Be back before nightfall, went out to study with a friend. -George** _

**It would suffice, and she never really cared where he went or why, so George figured it was as good an excuse as any. Only a simple half-truth.**

**He slapped the note onto the kitchen counter, and sent a message to Ruth stating he'll be there in about fifteen minutes.**

**He felt his nerves tingle, he was thrilled.**

**George hadn't ever spent his birthday doing much, but he figured at least for this year he could celebrate, even if the people he was celebrating with were practically strangers.**

**The backpack thumped against his spine as he locked the door behind him, and made his way back to the shop. --**

Clay was exhausted. From the social interactions with Drista and Sapnap, and then George doing whatever George does, his social meter was fresh empty. 

He needed a nap. 

He just wished he could see the back of _his_ eyelids while he slept. 


	11. BLISTER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost 1,000 Hits oh my gosh guys! All the support has been so lovely, it's truly been what's keeping me going, and I want you all to know I love and appreciate all of you! Sorry for being so busy, and not updating regularly, anyways, I'll keep it short; thanks so much for everything! <3
> 
> (Sorry for the shorter chapter today)

**Trigger Warnings:**

-disassociation, mild angst 

CHAPTER ELEVEN - BLISTER

George's legs trembled with energy. So did his hands. He couldn't afford them to. His mind was racing and he was desperately trying to keep his nerves at bay. He was fearful of the blackouts, that much he was willing to admit. It was his birthday though, and he wanted to do something other than just screw around in Minecraft or wallow in his own self pity. If he was being completely honest, he wasn't the most outgoing person. But just this once, he wanted to be. He bit his lip in concentration.

He noticed the weather was lightening up. The wind wasn't as harsh, and the sun poked through the clouds a little more. Despite this, his feet felt frigid through his shoes and his nose was running. 

George painstakingly took out his phone checking the time. He couldn't believe he was already nineteen. The thought of moving away excited his frozen bones, the adrenaline providing a strange, yet welcome warmth. He scrolled mindlessly through Instagram. God he was freezing. _Why is it so cold?_

His thoughts were flitting through his mind in quick succession, images moving so fast he could only catch a glimpse before the next. 

George fumbled with the newly added scarf. He nabbed it just before he left. It felt like he couldn't breathe. The scarf was taking away his thoughts, bringing him back to reality. 

He sighed. 

_Why was he so nervous?_

George shook away all the feelings and swallowed them deep down until all that was left was his stoic face, hinting nothing but pure neutrality. 

The sun was bright now, George had to shield his eyes with an arm when he turned it's direction. The light cast behind the small café as he walked into the building's shadow. The elegant glow was almost breathtaking, as it haloed behind the store.

Without thinking his hand was already at the handle and he twisted the door open. The scent of bread and coffee invaded his nostrils and he smiled. 

"George!" Ruth's voice was a bitter honey to his ears. 

Amy waved to him from behind the counter, George noticed a cloth in her hands and figured she had been cleaning the glasses with it. 

"Hello," he said simply. 

"Sooo ..." Ruth dragged, "what brings you here? Especially so soon, I mean don't get me wrong, I'm just -- " 

"It's my birthday today," George pursed his lips in a tight line. _Why did I say that?_ It's not like that was even a proper response, he scolded himself.

He moved to the spot where he had originally sat earlier that day, suddenly reminded of everything that happened there; the dream, the tea ... the snow. 

He felt eyes on him and he turned to face the duo awkwardly. Ruth was closer than he knew, he hadn't even heard her footsteps. His flinch of surprise went un-noticed, thankfully. 

Sensing the weird tension in the air, he continues, "figured I come here to celebrate." He rubbed the back of his neck.

There was something sitting on his tongue, some unsaid sentence that he couldn't grasp. 

In truth, he enjoyed the café.

Even the people inside it's walls.

"Oh," Ruth adjusted her apron, "don't you -- " Amy looked at her pointedly and her hands pressed together and apart in different shapes George couldn't understand. 

"I was just -- " Another flurry of hands interrupted Ruth again, and she sighed. 

George felt awkward, he could tell the conversation was about him, and it made his nerves spike. 

"Oh come on Amy!" Ruth bursted in this half joking, half serious tone, and at this point George was completely and utterly lost. 

He was oddly reminded of his dream he had in the café as he decided to sit down until they finished whatever it was they were doing. 

George thought about the figure, and it's voice. Come to think of it, that's all it was; a figure. He hadn't even bothered to properly look at who it was. His memory was foggy and he tried desperately to remember if it was someone he knew. 

So familiar yet so absolutely not. 

Not to mention the weird closeness, what the hell was all that about? He groaned internally.

The shop was so bizarre and it was just supposed to be a place he got his lunch from and moved on, but now he's here. 

Yet he couldn't make himself walk away from it.

His feet brought him back to the counter. He cleared his throat, both to distract himself and to get their attention. Sudden nervousness creeping in. He chose his gestures with care, though tension showed in each of his muscles, "may I have a coffee?" 

"Oh yes of course! Amy could you get a pot brewing?" She turned back to him after addressing Amy, "it'll be a little bit, can I get you anything else?" 

"Uhh ... I'll take a scone for now," he went to open his wallet. 

"No need, boy." Ruth took a beautiful scone from the display, the glass shifting. His eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

"It's your birthday is it not?" A sad smile made it's way onto her face as the scone made it's way to his palms.

"T-Thanks."

"No problem at all, let me know what you think of it." He nodded in response, quickly turning back to the bistro table. 

He sat, his legs kicking back and forth happily. He set the baked good on the table. His legs couldn't stop moving. Muscles pulling, his feet wrenching back and forth. George held them down, but then his head shook, too, tiny tugs in all directions. His sight faded for a second without ever shutting his eyes. He willed his neck still. 

It didn't work. 

He wanted to raise his hands to press them to his cheeks, but they hung unresponsive by his sides, as though he'd slept in the wrong position and a million needles were about to stab his skin with every movement. Those pricks refused to come. His arms didn't listen. 

His head stopped moving. It came to a halt with his face turned left, looking at Amy still cleaning the counter, a soft pout on her face across the room. 

"Boy?" Ruth made a sound of hesitation. The nickname perking his ears.

George's lips moved. But _he_ didn't move them.

It wasn't just his arms or head he couldn't use. He tried to wiggle his toes. To direct his eyes back to Ruth, who was getting up from her seat, based on the sound of her stool scraping against the floor. None of it worked. He wasn't sleeping. 

George felt his heart speed up -- so maybe he could control that, at least his heart was still his, still listened to his panic -- and then his hands rose, and his head turned back to Ruth, all of it without his say-so. 

George stumbled, and for that split second he was falling to the floor and couldn't stop himself, couldn't move his feet forward or extend his arms or cover his face --

He caught himself. That unseen something tugged at his lips again. Like fingers playing with his face, pulling his muscles left and up without his consent. He was trapped. 

"woah," his mouth said, pushing air from his lungs past his lips. The sounds came from his own mouth, but they sounded alien, foreign -- some accent he couldn't put his finger on. 

His hands still hovered by his chest, slowly his fingers clasped together and spread apart. None of the movements looking like his own. "It's working. I'm here. This is me I'm doing this I'm using his hands, this is working, it's working -- " 

"George, what are you -- what do you mean?" Ruth's voice caught.

Behind Ruth came footsteps. Amy. His body turned to face her a second later than he would have. Amy signed towards the two of them, a questioning look on her face. 

" _Anything wrong?_ " Ruth stated. 

_Yes_ , he wanted to say. _This isn't me. I'm trapped. This isn't me!_

George's feet stomped. His hands clapped. His lips pulled into a grimace. He filled his lungs, held that breath, let it shudder out. "It's real," his mouth said. His eyes stared at his hands, moving without his command. He never watched his own hands. There was no point. But now? His eyes stayed glued to his hands as they tumbled over themselves. "It's real, it worked, I'm _here_."

"What are you talking about?" Ruth asked. 

Amy shuffled closer, but not too close, leaning in with only her head. She seemed to laugh, though it was silent. She signed, Ruth translating. 

" _How many drugs are you_ on _George?_ " Ruth scoffed, adding her own comment, "don't joke about drugs you goof," a hint of concern lacing her words. 

The coffee pot bubbled in the silence. 

George's head shook, slowly at first, then stronger, enough to send his hair slightly shifting against his head, tickling his cheeks. He laughed. The sound was not his own.

"No. Not George." 


	12. SCALD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Finals are finally over, woo-hoo! I am so sorry for taking forever to update on this, but holy crap you guys! 100 kudos?! That's insane, I am so grateful for each and every one of you and I absolutely cannot wait to be uploading more frequently, we're finally getting to some of the good parts and I hate to leave you all hanging. Thank you so much for all the comments, support, and patience, it means the world to me! 
> 
> Enjoy~ <3

**Trigger Warnings:**

-swearing, disassociation

CHAPTER TWELVE - SCALD

What kind of demon would take control like this? What kind of creature would have him stand here laughing and making him smack his lips? 

"What do you mean _not George?_ " Ruth said slowly. " _Not George?_ " she repeated. 

George's hands came up to his face, it touched his neck, his cheeks, it was the most awkward feeling having his own hands explore his features. He wanted to cringe away from his fingers, the rough texture grazing his peach fuzz.

George concentrated on sensing his hands, trying to desperately identify their movements. The signals didn't come from him, but he could recognize the tug of his muscles, the brush of his skin. "I've taken over before, but he doesn't know. He never knows," his lips moved awkwardly, his accent no longer his own. 

George wanted to scream. 

Someone was doing this to him. Someone was pushing and shoving around his muscles. Someone was shutting him out of his own body. 

He hated it.

Amy was suddenly shaking her head. Her left hand quickly came down onto her right palm aggressively, and her eyes scrunched up looking accusatory. Amy then took her right hand and rubbed it flat against her chest, and then repeated the sign before that. George had no idea what she was saying, as Ruth was lost in thought, unable to translate. 

"If you're not George," Ruth asked, "are you a spirit? Another personality maybe?"

George felt his lips stretch. Was he smiling? He never smiled like this. Not with his lips parting, his teeth visible. 

"Then who?" Amy shook. Frustration -- and fear, too, George thought, but he couldn't comfort her, couldn't tell her that the fear and anger she held helped as little as his own. 

"I am not a spirit. I am -- " George's hands paused there. Their exploration halted to just the tips of his fingers grazing the tip of his nose, his left cheek, the bridge between his eyebrows -- he didn't want to think about them but he couldn't _not_ think about them. It was as if he was trying to hide behind the hands. His movements were slow, and the hands dropped to his chest. Almost like they became self-aware. "You can call me Dream. Because frankly that's what you are to me, this feels like one big, messed up, dream."

"Dream," Ruth repeated, almost a question. 

_Dream,_ George repeated to himself. He didn't know the name. How could he not know the name? This person, this _thing_ was in his body. This person was in the tips of his fingers and the heat of his belly and the squish-and-pull of his lungs. 

He should know the name. 

"You're not a spirit, or a demon," Ruth stated. "Why are you possessing him?" 

Amy's hands kept rising and moving together as if she wanted to say something, but Ruth had said all there was to say. She looked calm. She was good at that, George decided. Even when she was afraid, nervous, she hid it under tight smiles and nods. 

This calm was new. Regal almost. 

"Possessing _him?_ No, no, if anyone's the 'spirit' here it's George, not me, I'm just a boy. George pulls me in, He makes me see through his eyes," George noted the way his hand fidgeted with his sleeve. "His 'spirit' powers or whatever you wanna call it -- they do this, but he doesn't know it. You have to tell him. You have to explain." 

His knee bobbed fast. His words had foreign inflections, as did the grammar -- but not when Dream wanted his words to work. When he cared enough to slow down. 

George wanted to shake his head. He wanted to dash away, move backward, as though that would leave Dream behind in the space where he now stood and leave him free. His body didn't listen. His connection to it was severed. George was thoughts, nothing more. He couldn't even move that lock of hair out of his eyes. 

"So George is responsible for doing this?" Ruth asked. 

"Yes! He's been pulling me in for years, since before ... Since before his real Dad left -- I've been in his head, since before his step-father. Always in his head. Locked up. He sucks me in every time I close my eyes. He can heal, he always knew that, but he didn't know _why_."

 _No_. George couldn't think beyond that single, dim word: _no_. This was madness. This was beyond believing. 

Amy was staring at George's hands. Ruth scanned the rest of him. Her eyes dipped to the way George's feet stood on the floor, wide and steady, then rose to the eagerness of his hands, and settled on his lips, his eyes. "I don't think I've heard of this happening," Ruth said. "Spirits, ghosts, demons, they all do odd things, but they don't move into each other's bodies." 

"Well apparently they do!" George's movements contained too much energy. "George does! Normally I can only watch, but now my medication is changing something. George still pulls me in, but now I can ... I can ... " His hands thrust out, then in, pressing to his collarbone. "I can _move._ "

Tears pricked George's eyes. Dream's tears. Not his. He knew, because if his body was his own, those tears would've shown up minutes ago.

"Where are you from?" Ruth asked, still calm. "Are you responsible for him always being so distant?" 

_Ouch,_ George thought. 

"He must be having a blackout right now," the hands trembled. "That's why you have to tell him."

Yes. _The_ hands. These were someone else's hands, not his, not right now. He was not in his own body but in someone else's, deciphering what went on. 

That was better. Easier. 

"I'm not from here. Before, when George blacked out, I took over. I was the one who kept him safe while he healed. I didn't know what happened. This time, I wanted to test it. He _must_ be having a blackout. I can't feel him. Normally I can feel his thoughts, pain -- everything -- but he's blank now." 

_Not blank!_ he wanted to shout. _I'm here I can see this, I can see this! I'm here!_

Dream couldn't hear him. 

But he said he could all the rest of the time. For years. No, those words on his lips couldn't be true -- there's no way he could trap someone inside his head. His thoughts were his own. The only thing that was his and no one else's. 

"Where are you from?" Ruth repeated. " 'Not from here' can mean anywhere. Not from this city? Not from Europe? Where, then? Germany? Russia? France? The -- " 

George's head shook. That lock of hair brushed back and forth over his forehead. 

"Where?" Something insistent and hard crept into Ruth's voice, all her motherly warmth seeming to disappear. 

Another laugh that wasn't his. "I'm not from the country. Not from this ... _side of the world._ "

The door opened. The chime rang. A man came inside with heavy boots, every step a creak and a cloud of old grain dust. 

George felt his body turn, and a glare creep into his eyebrows. 

A quiet growl emitted from his vocal cords. 

The sound took George by surprise, not aware he could even produce such a noise. He was further perplexed as to what it meant.

Ruth shifted on her feet, eventually moving behind the counter after placing a hand on George's shoulder, and leaning in. "Go sit down. Don't do _anything._ " Her voice was cold, commanding. 

His body scoffed at her, something George wouldn't have been able to do, as he was mentally cowering from her. Despite this his feet made it's way to the familiar bistro table. 

His hand reached out for a napkin and pen as he sat down. He? No, Dream. It may have been his body, but it certainly wasn't _him_. 

Dream wrote with his right hand, George noticed this immediately, as he himself, would have used his left. 

The pen felt awkward in the unpracticed hand. 

Before long a small note was written on the napkin, and suddenly George wished he had his backpack with him. 

" _Hey George, I don't know if you're here right now, but I'm sorry if I freaked you out, it's nice to be able to meet you, I think._ " The pen tapped against the table as though contemplating what to write next. " _These two seem nice, you should get to know them more, we both know how many friends you have. Okay, sorry, low blow man. But it's the truth. Please don't hate me, okay? Let's figure this out together :) -Dream_ " 

George's mind was swirling with all of his emotions. He hated him. Yet his hate wasn't solid. There was an odd sort of caring that resided in the note, even if it did freak him out. The handwriting was legible, barely, but it certainly wasn't _his_ handwriting. George had felt insane, and frankly, he still does, but the vast amount of differences between him and 'Dream' was clear. He felt better knowing that he was still _him,_ and that whoever was in his body was a completely different person.

The chime of the door rang again, the customer leaving without having said much. A bag clutched under an arm.

Almost at the exact same moment, a hand slammed on the table. 

Abruptly, George crumpled. His muscles sagged, his shoulders dropped, and it was as if those movements finally opened his lungs to him. He drew in air, lifted his head, pumped his lungs full, gasping for more and more and more, in and out, and -- he was back? He screwed his hands into fists, curled his toes inside the too-hot boots, and felt his exhales turn to near-sobs. 

His body. His. 

"Dream you have some fucking explaining to do." Ruth said through grit teeth. Her hand was on the table where she had hit it, her knuckles white and red spreading from where the impact landed.

Amy was beside her with a worried tilt to her eyebrows, she seemed to catch on faster than her counter-part and placed a gentle hand on Ruth. 

Ruth didn't move, though. The skin over her jaw tightened. She must think George was still ... not him. She'd be worried that this Dream might cause trouble. 

_Dream_. George repeated the name, committing it to memory, although he didn't think he could forget it, ever. 

He finally brushed that lock of hair away from his forehead. This movement must have ticked Ruth off as she gave a huff of annoyance. 

"Not so talkative now are -- " 

"It's _me._ " George said simply, he didn't think he could say anything else without his voice quivering. 

That shattered whatever cold barrier Ruth had been putting up as her eyes widened in shock. 

"George?"

He nodded his head with a hum. 

Arms surrounded him and he could hear a hallow laugh escape her. "Thank goodness." The words were muffled in the cloth of his shoulder, but he understood nonetheless. 

"Oh my gosh, are you okay?" She pulled back from the hug, not completely, but enough to allow him to breathe. She analyzed every inch of his face.

"Yeah ... just -- just kind of processing everything." 

Tears burned behind his eyes, the heat scalding as they stung with familiarity -- having Dream already cry in his body. 

He felt exhausted. 

Streams made their way down his cheeks, salty rivers paving their way on his face. His gaze felt empty as he felt the note in his pocket, Dream must have slipped it in there while his eyes were turned away, distracted by the customer. 

It felt like he carried the world in that pocket, like he was holding contraband, or some sort of ancient relic. He felt oddly protective over it. It made him feel real, it made the whole situation real, and George didn't want to let that go. 

But for now, in this moment, he didn't want to think about anything, he let his tears soak into Ruth's shirt, scolding himself for being too selfish to let go. 

Gentle fingers made their way to his hair, his head, holding him closer. The other hand made circular motions across his back. George wasn't one for physical affection, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't soaking in every second of it. 

What did Dream mean, _he was in his head?_


	13. LEMONS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter one today, I'll be sure to update when I can, thanks for being so patient <3

**Trigger Warnings:**

-mentions of neglect, mild angst

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - LEMONS

It worked. 

Until Ruth slammed her fist against the table and the shock launched Clay back to himself, he'd pulled it off. He wasn't worthless. He could move -- walk -- laugh. He wasn't trapped behind George's eyes anymore. 

At dinner he was nauseous and jittery, more concerned with picking out George's thoughts than anything else. He'd scared the older boy. Clay assumed he'd been gone, but George's thoughts now made it clear he'd been wrong. How did that work? How could he sense George normally but not when he steered his body? 

George was a mess as he tried to collect his thoughts, Clay's fake name cropped up in his thoughts every few seconds, sometimes as letters and sometimes as sounds. The word sounded odd in George's mind -- the fake name threw him for a loop -- but it was his _name_. George had never thought any of his names before. 

Clay found it difficult to give George his real name at the time -- instead settling for the name his Minecraft avatar adorned. 

Clay hardly touched his dinner, giving half-present answers and disappearing for too-long blinks that had his parents exchanging knowing looks. _The pills aren't working_ , they had to be thinking, and, for once, they were wrong. 

After dinner, he found himself scrubbing even the bottom of the dinner plates twice. He kept the dishes low in the sink in case they slid from his hands. George, Damon, -- England -- it all startled him too frequently for him to take risks holding anything fragile. 

Scrub, rinse, stack. The water soaked into his fingers. Soap bubbles covered everything, popping open with the scent of lemon. 

Clay didn't mean to freak out George. At first George's magic had pulled him in only while he slept, then also when he consciously closed his eyes. Within months they'd reached the here-and-now point of every last blink. He'd never stopped being scared it would progress further. He had ended up in a coma twice before, when he was nine and thirteen and had given up on fighting to stay in his own body. At some point, he knew it might not matter how much he fought. 

He remembered the first time George had pulled him in during the day, when he'd hidden in the school bathroom, pressing his eyes shut and suddenly unable to move, suddenly trapped in another body. In that world people shepherded him -- George -- left and right, teaching him to cut vegetables and do chores. Clay hadn't even been able to scream out when George cut his finger with the sharp knife; George was a terrible cook. 

So he understood George's fear at being controlled. Almost too well. He shouldn't take him over like that. He'd only meant to let George know about him. Still, the thought -- oh, the thought of finally balling those hands into fists, or pointing his eyes where he wanted to look ... was he supposed to go back to spending half his life trapped? Pretending he wasn't there? 

From the living room, Drista shouted, "Clay! You done? Want to watch a movie?" Some murmurs followed. "Or do you need help washing up?" She sounded less excited now, although Clay didn't need to hear that to figure out Dad was behind it all. He must've made her ask in the first place, too. Drista knew too well what answer to expect. 

"Thanks. I've got homework." Actually, George had been crying for a while now and his exhaustion was seeping into Clay's own body. He felt about ready to pass out, despite never knowing when he was actually sleeping. 

"You sure? The main actress has huge boobs!" Drista tried in vain not to giggle. Clay imagined joining them -- Dad ribbing Drista while he worked, Drista faking annoyance because she was watching the movie -- then a stab of unease from George caught his attention. He lowered another glass to the counter and -- 

**\-- George's grip on his hoodie tightened. He stood by his bed, exhausted from the day, unable to convince himself to pull his hoodie off of himself. He was strangely aware of how the fabric caressed every inch of his torso. He wasn't a prude; he never had the time to be. Even if he was, it wasn't as though anyone would come into his room, not without him analyzing the footsteps before they reached his door. His 'parents' usually didn't care what he was up to, as long as he wasn't dead. George considered the thought. They may not have even cared if he died, it would take them a day or two to even notice.**

**He still couldn't bring himself to pull off his hoodie. His usual routine suddenly came to a halt. It wasn't about modesty. It was about being ... his. His hands dropped from the fabric's collar. He stepped away from his bed, his feet silent against the wood without his boots. He felt a sting in his heel, but it passed without his recognition.**

**He stopped at a tall window at one end of his room. The world past the glass was so dark that George barely saw beyond his own reflection: the pale shade of his skin, the worn blue of his cotton hoodie, his hair dark and disheveled.**

**Clay studied the sight of him. George rarely faced his reflection for long.**

**He might be Clay's age, but George looked older. He was slim and hard and hovered on girlish, down to his longer lashes and soft nose. Clay couldn't think of him as anything else but beautiful. Not because of how he looked; if he were anyone else, he'd be good looking, sure.**

**But when George moved his hands, they felt like Clay's. When his stomach rumbled, or when his feet ached, the sensations mingled with his own. Sometimes George felt simply like another version of himself, a life he led in a world he couldn't touch, and not like a guy for him to fantasize about. They'd never see each other face-to-face.**

**He'd thought about it, anyway. When he undressed. When he thought of his own fantasies. He had no way of escaping those images -- or the guilt that came with them. He'd learned to live with it.**

**But now George knew about him.**

**"Are you watching this?" George's voice was so low Clay almost didn't recognize he was speaking. He felt the rumble in his chest, though, and saw his mirrored lips move in the glass. "Is it true? Are you watching this?"**

**His hands went up. They yanked at his hoodie. Fabric slid past fabric, the movement was quick, until it glided past his shoulders. He tugged the clothing away, a heap in his arms, and stared at his reflection, at bunched muscles in his shoulders and at eyes squinted nearly shut. At the indentation of his collarbone visible above the article of clothing he clutched.**

**He flung it at the glass. It dropped in an angry pile. "Are you _always_ watching?" **

**His hands struck the window, palms _thunking_ off, then slammed again, going for a third time, but he stopped there, his arms pulled back and tense. The sound of a door closing caught his attention. Someone must be home.**

**He stood there, shuddering, for too long.**

**Finally he crouched to gather the hoodie. He clasped it so tightly his hands ached from the effort. _Go away,_ he thought, angry and broken and so far beyond anything Clay could name he almost choked on it. **

**George turned. He walked back to his bed, stiff with hatred. Soft footsteps continued, he figured it was his mother's. He tossed the blue mass next to his bed and sank down without taking off his wear. Quietly, with small, restrained words, he mumbled, "I don't know what I'm doing to keep you here." Then: "Go away."**

**And something clicked and --**

\-- then the world was black. Clay's eyes flew open. The first things he saw: his own water-wrinkled hands. The first thing he smelled: dish soap, sharp lemon. 

His eyes shut, turning the world black. They opened again. Shut, open, shut, open, and black every time. Clay's black, not George's black. 

He darted away from the sink, sending suds dancing through the air. Of course. Of _course!_ The problem had always been that George didn't know he pulled Clay in. Clay had thought he'd be stuck in there forever -- but George just needed to be aware. 

George could control it. 

Clay closed his eyes again for good measure, just for a moment, just to revel in the darkness of his own eyelids. He felt dizzy. He wanted to -- oh, he could sleep now, sleep without feeling _his_ blanket on _his_ skin and _his_ irises against _his_ eyelids, he could close his eyes and hear only his own breathing, he could -- 

Clay turned, almost walking into Dad. "Whoa. Do you need to lie down? I know dinner went badly." 

And then Clay couldn't contain his smile, wide enough to hurt his cheeks. Just like the smile he'd made on George's face. Just like the smile he often saw on Drista's and could never imitate. 

Surprised, Dad smiles back just as broadly. 

"I want to watch that movie," Clay declared. 


	14. HAZE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, in fact, alive <3

**Trigger Warnings:**

-swearing

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - HAZE

Clay hadn't paid much attention to the movie, though Drista tried desperately to make him embarrassed by elbowing him in the side and whispered how 'hot' the actress was. 

Truthfully, he couldn't bring himself to care about the movie, though, he relished in the ability to have the choice. 

After ten minutes into the film, he had decided it was cliché and didn't pay attention to what was going on. 

Hell, he couldn't even recall what the title was. 

His mind was elsewhere, typically looping back to thoughts of George, which he'd mentally hit himself for. Why was he taking up so many of his thoughts? Surely there was something more important, more _real_ to be thinking about. At least, that's what he wanted to think.

As he watched the odd nudity, and bizarre scenes of terribly portrayed emotional conflict, Clay couldn't help but think about video games. Specifically, Minecraft. That night that he had spent with Sapnap, just screwing around, he felt liberated. 

George hadn't even crossed his mind when he dived into the familiar blocky world -- he considered the idea of making it a habit. Plus, Sapnap would appreciate the company. 

Clay sighed aloud, causing Drista to scoff, "you really don't find her attractive?" she uttered in a hushed tone. 

He contemplated the question, and found that Drista was right. He honestly couldn't care less about the actress on the screen. She was pretty, sure. But, she was unattainable, and he couldn't find it in himself to care about her in a way that matters. 

"She is, this movie just sucks," he mumbled. 

Drista faked a gasp of hurt, "how could you! She's a _queen_ and I'll have you know this movie has an eighty-seven on rotten tomatoes!" She crossed her arms in defiance, and he rolled his eyes in the dark of the living room. A smile creeping it's way onto his face. He realized it wasn't the movie that he liked, but the ability to watch the movie with Drista, and be able to banter, and follow along with her comments. He enjoyed being real -- being present. He silently promised himself he'd sink into every moment without George. 

_George_

He scolded himself for circling back to the boy ... again. 

He laughed with Drista as the movie continued to play, the night becoming a haze. 

\--- 

Clay's pen tapped the pages of his workbook. He was going over yesterday's physics problems a final time before class. Only a few of the seats were filled, and he could hear streams of students rushing past the door to get to their own respective classes. Down the hall, some kids were fighting, others cheering. 

Clay double-checked the questions he'd flagged as beyond his comprehension. Two out of every three. 

The totally pathetic thing was that completing even a third of his assignments meant an improvement. Everything was an improvement. He could hold on to his train of thought. He found himself spreading his eyes open in class before realizing he no longer needed to; he could deactivate his phone's alarm, which normally woke him every few hours so he wouldn't stay in George's world too long; that morning, he'd woken up disoriented from nothing but the weirdness of his own dreams instead of the jolt of remembering who he was, where he was, and that George was nothing but a far-off boy in a far-off world.

If George was even that. Maybe the medication worked. Maybe he really had been hallucinating all these years.

"Oh, good!" Anna thumped her backpack onto the desk next to Clay's. "You did those problems. Can I copy them?"

"You probably don't want to." Clay tried to come up with something else to say, something witty, but nothing came to mind. He didn't have much practice, and, despite his uninterrupted sleep, he was already tired. He'd dreamed about England, then spent too long staring at the cabinet where he kept his journals. It'd been a real dream, complete with random nudity and Damon showing up in his kitchen and Drista shouting at him -- nothing like George's dreams or England's not-really-dreams he'd had as a kid that had evolved into something more. These dreams didn't need to go into the journals. 

Nothing needed to go into the journals anymore. What should he even do with them now? 

"Oh!" Anna only now turned to look at him. She must've thought he was someone else. No one ever asked to copy his homework. Mainly because he never did any. 

"You can copy my Spanish homework," Clay offered. "I guarantee that's in good shape."

Anna laughed, showing off braces that glinted in the stark lighting. "Thanks, I got that from Sophia already. Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm bad." She punctuated that with an angelic batting of her eyelashes. 

"I don't ... " Clay chewed on the inside of his cheek, thinking. He could do this. Talk to a cute girl. Sometimes he forgot just how clueless he was, though. The way George fantasized came so easily that Clay occasionally, sourly, had to remind himself that he was still a virgin to almost all things romance. 

He'd kissed a girl before, a year ago. Maybe he could do it again sometime. Nothing stopped him. He was like everyone else now. He could date and kiss and a whole lot more -- see what love was like with his own body and mind. He'd probably be decent, having lived another's perspective a hundred times already. That _had_ to give him a leg up. 

The thought of falling in love felt stale, and awkward in his brain, yet he tried to keep optimistic. 

He'd never even had the chance to discover his sexuality. 

Plus, Anna was ... nice, even if she weirded him out. She seemed so young. Not physically, since she was taller and had a lot more going on features-wise, but just the way she laughed and talked, the way she simultaneously complained and bragged about her part-time job at the fro-yo shop. Last week she and her friends had been late for English class, and she'd been the only one to actually run through the halls despite those tiny heels of hers or her bag bouncing off her hips. Even her brother had lingered with her friends, way too cool to run. Clay couldn't remember George or his Mother ever being that young. 

Maybe Anna wasn't young, just normal. 

"Well, I can't judge you for copying homework," Clay said, realizing how long he'd been silent. 

"No way. Mysterious loner boy cheats on his homework?"

 _Mysterious loner boy?_ His eyebrows rose. It didn't sound as if Anna meant it in a bad way, though. Maybe she was into mysterious loners. "And not just any homework," he said. "I've even copied Sophia's Spanish a couple times. There's no excusing that." 

Clay quickly recalled the girl, Sophia was smart alright, and she made sure her education came first. Her grades were always top-notch. She guaranteed it. Some considered her a bookworm, but her intelligence was undeniable, she soaked up all the information like a sponge. Her reputation as a straight-A student was known throughout their grade. 

Anna laughed. "Oh, shit, Sophia never told me that. Seriously? Tell me you were sick." 

" _Meet-my-lunch_ sick that time," Clay lied, half laughing. After yesterday, and given how often he supposedly dozed off in class to check on George, it seemed safe to joke about. How _was_ George doing? He could close his eyes and -- no. George had kicked him out. 

"Well, you can get away with just about anything if you're sick." 

Clay swept his pen at the empty exercises in his physics workbook. "Think Mr. O'Neil will agree?" 

"I could cover for you? I can go, 'He was totally hurling, Mr. O! I could hear it all the way from the girls' bathroom!" 

"Take it from an expert. Hurling let's you skip all the tricky assignments."

"Does it?" She said airily. "Well, shit. I oughta try that." 

"You should. And we should go out." He didn't even realize he was saying the words until they'd already passed his lips. That ... might've needed more finesse. 

She blinked in surprise. "We should, huh?" 

Was that a question or an agreement? He mentally face-palmed at the tension he caused. "I ... " 

Right on cue, the bell screeched. Mr. O'Neil walked into the room. 

"Hey, I'll think about it." Anna flashed Clay a smile, unzipped her bag, and pulled out her physics book. 

His first day without George, and he'd already asked out a girl. Clay closed his eyes, reveling in the noise of the classroom instead of that of George's world. 

Maybe he could be a normal kid after all. 


	15. PERCEPTION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double Chapter today! So sorry for being so inconsistent, I was rewriting some of the chapters because I no longer liked the direction I was going with this, I hope you enjoy, and I am so sorry for the crap chapters. I love you all, thank you so much <3

**Trigger Warnings:**

-disassociation

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - PERCEPTION

Drista didn't realize he was there. 

Clay had taken up a quiet spot at the other end of the middle-school gymnasium, leaning on a vaulting horse to watch Drista and her classmates rehearse. They wore their regular clothes and didn't use many props, but when Clay imagined them in fake hospital gear, with clipboards in their hands, he had to admit the scene might work. Drista was doing a good job. Her biggest problem was waiting for others to finish before she blurted out her lines. No one seemed to mind, though. Their biggest problem seemed to be remembering their lines in the first place. 

After twenty minutes, Drista notices him. She squeaked an apology to her drama teacher and crossed the room. "Clay! What're you doing here?" 

"I was thinking about the movie from last night." Clay stayed by the vaulting horse. It was weird being back in this gym -- though his 'epilepsy' meant he'd never spent much time here to begin with. "That actress was alright." He lied.

"You just liked her boobs." 

"That, too," he lied again, mainly to get a laugh or a cringe out if her. "But her expression when she saw that train explode ... I was impressed." He nodded slowly, casually. He used the white lies to edge the topic along, towards something he knew she was passionate about. A simple conversation with his sister shouldn't make his heart race like this. 

The thing was, they'd never _had_ a simple conversation. Even the moments when George slept, he was weighed down by his dreams. 

"I know, right?" Drista's excitement with the topic was obvious. "Did you see what she did with her lips? Just that little quirk at the end -- it's so subtle, you know? People online say she was flat but -- " she looked at her classmates and lowered her voice. "What're you doing here?" 

"Wanted to see you rehearse." 

"Did you walk all the way? It's cold out!"

"Seemed like a good idea," Clay stated, though his shirt was drenched and he must smell worse than the dressing rooms nearby. The coat was overkill. "So, you want to be an actress."

"What? No." She paused. "Okay ... Maybe I do. Yes. It's stupid, I know, but -- " 

"It's not stupid." 

"It is," she said heatedly. "Whatever. I want it, anyway." She tilted her head, and it took Clay a second to realize she was redirecting his gaze to the kids at the other end of the gym. "Y'see Claudia, over there? She's got a big part, and her cousin is coming over from LA to watch. He's mostly done ads and this one dumb reenactment, but Claud says he just got a part on a CSI-type show. I figure, if he sees me, and I'm good ... maybe he can give me some advice?" 

"Maybe." Clay tried not to laugh. That'd be one way to get Drista mad at him real quick. Today, though, not laughing was a real challenge. He was in his own world. When he shut his eyes, he still heard Drista and still smelled the stale sweat of the gym, the old leather of the vaulting horse under his elbows. He straightened out his smile. "Do you still need volunteers?" 

\--- 

"You have time to watch the movie? You're sure?" Clay asked Mom the next evening, halfway up the stairs. "I'll get the laptop!" 

"It's that sci-fi movie, right?" Mom called. "Sci-fi is _cool_."

"That's why I downloaded it." He returned to the top of the stairs with the laptop bag around his shoulders and hopped carefully down the steep steps. 

This would be his third movie in as many days. He'd spent Tuesday and today doing more than he'd ever thought possible. He was nauseated from the increased dose of medication, sure, but he'd rehearsed with Drista, who learned to get her eyebrows under control; volunteered with her drama teacher; done homework; flirted with Anna at school -- clumsily, though she seemed not to mind -- and at the end of the day he still had energy left for TV, swimming, Minecraft, chores. 

Maybe he could get some Sci-fi comics from the library and see if Mom liked those, too. Maybe he'd finally get to study Spanish alongside Dad and Drista; he knew how important Mexica pride was to Dad and how important it was becoming to Drista. To feel that kind of passion about who you were and weren't ... Maybe Clay could learn. Maybe he could understand. God, he wanted to understand. 

How had he been able to fill his days all those years doing nothing at all? 

In the kitchen, Mom was wiggling past Dad to grab plates. "Almost done," Dad sing-songed at the stove. He stuck a pinkie into the sauce and licked it off. "Very almost." 

Mom turned. With her free hand, she reached out and finger-combed Clay's hair -- he could have _sworn_ she lifted that hand before she'd even gotten a good look at him. "Ah, Clay, you really need to use some gel. Did you run out?" She was seconds away from licking her fingers to improvise. Instead, her hand moved down the side of his face to cup his chin. "I told you we'd get here." 

She turned for the living room with a bounce in her step. Dad leaned against the counter's edge, regarding Clay appreciatively. "The new dosage really is working, isn't it? You're not having any seizures?" 

Clay aimed for a casual shrug, but the bag around his shoulder -- the laptop was a heavy old model that by all means should have been broken down years ago -- made it a challenge. "None." 

"You happy?" 

Clay's growing smile should say enough. "Yeah. I'm adjusting, but I'm good." 

Dad twisted a knob behind him, turning the flame under the saucepan into a tiny blue flicker. "That's what matters. What's on your arm?" 

Clay tilted his lower arm inward. "Just doodles. Hey I need to set up the movie ... " 

"Sounds good." Suddenly Dad was all business, stirring the sauce around the chicken, sending scents of peanut and sharp chili through the air. Dad rarely cooked like this. Real food took too long and cost too much. Clay had taken care of the second part, calling his grandmother for advice and using his last remaining birthday money to pick up the necessary items at the corner store, only remembering when he got home that his parents would have too much work to do to cook. They'd taken one look at the freshly stocked fridge, though, and decided to make an exception. Today marked Clay's third evening and second full day without seizures; they had something to celebrate. 

Dad tested the temperature of the tortillas, like every well-calloused parent does -- putting his hand on the tortilla, and nodding. "Oh, this'll be _good_." 

It was, and so was the movie, the four of them nestled in the couch with plates in front of them that they should take to the kitchen to rinse off, but no one did, and no one even opened their mouth to suggest it. By the time the main character's son had a knife to his throat halfway through, Mom was squishing a pillow in her lap, and Drista was leaning forward with the widest grin on her face. 

Surreptitiously, Clay licked his thumb and rubbed at the doodles of George. In the glow of the television screen, he could see that the ink was already smudging. He'd gone over where the old lines used to be in History class. He just ... wanted to see if he remembered. 

"You're not watching?" Dad nudged him. 

Clay smiled, standing. "I'll be back in a minute. No need to pause." 

He headed straight for the bathroom, locked the door, sat on the lid of the toilet, and slumped sideways to rest his head on the cool wall tiles. He shut his eyes only to find the by-now-familiar black. What was wrong with him? The movie was good, or at least he thought it was; he didn't have much to compare it with. 

And the way Mom and Dad had been smiling at him lately -- nothing beat that. They'd want to talk about the movie afterward because they so rarely had the chance to watch movies together, and they'd glow even brighter if he joined in. He could nerd out over the acting with Drista or gush over the action scenes, but how was he supposed to care about some actor on that screen? Out there, George -- maybe Damon had -- 

Clay had hated George for years. But now, he worried. He missed George. 

And the truth was, despite the flurry of activity, he didn't know what to do with himself. Clay thought of what Dad had said when they'd talked over laundry: What did he _want_ to do? He had so many options now, a hundred options and more. He loved it, he did, he hadn't lied about being happy -- 

But family nights and cute girls at school and playing big brother and all those things people expected of him paled the second George flashed across his thoughts. 

He thought freedom would be different. 

He thought he would have cared more. 

Clay's eyes burned. If he cried, he would ruin the movie. 

_George,_ he thought, and -- 

**\--pain.**

**The pain was there, but through a haze of thoughts and images Clay couldn't identify. He recognized this. George was sleeping but not quite dreaming.**

**So why the pain?**

**And why was he back? Maybe George's 'magic' or whatever acted up in his sleep. Clay should leave him be. He couldn't explain the pain, though. It never lasted this long -- George should be healing.**

**Clay concentrated. He could wake George up, if nothing else. He focused on his abdomen, the lids of his eyes. Then, he opened them. He raised George's arms. Bandages were wrapped around them, held together with neat stitches that must've been done by someone who knew what they were doing. Clay inhaled shallowly and tried to sit. A sharp yelp escaped. Something stabbed his -- George's -- stomach. He dropped back, panting.**

**"George!" Ruth appeared by his side. He studied her swollen lip, then the ceiling behind her, the walls, the smell of dust and sanitizing products. They were in a room. He lay in an all-too-clean bed that must be George's temporarily. Not far off, he saw Amy sitting in a chair, her head lulled to one side in what looked like a steady nap. He noted the absence of Damon or George's Mother.**

**"Are you okay? Don't move. The cuts might open. Amy had been struggling enough to keep you stable, what happened with your own healing? We weren't sure when you'd wake up."**

**Clay repeated Ruth's words in his head, as if that might help him understand what had happened.**

**"You're bleeding again." Ruth winced at the bandages around George's stomach. "Amy took care of most of the cuts, but that one wouldn't heal easy. We'll need to have it wrapped again. Oh, thank the heavens. I'm ... so glad you're ... " She slowed, then came to a full stop. Her teeth pressed into her lower lip, a thin strip of white on brown. Her next words came steadily: "You're not George."**

**Clay couldn't sit up, but at least he could wring his wrists to ease the anxiety creeping in.**

**"How can you tell?"**

**"The way that you look at me is too comfortable. Dream?"**

**He nodded.**

**"Did George pull you in again?"**

**Clay tried to sit up a second time, grimacing at the pain that slashed through his abdomen and fanned outward, but this time he managed. "Sort of. He pushed me out after last time. Not just out of his body, but his mind, too. That's never happened. I haven't been here at all since the day I took over. I think ... I think this time I came of my own accord."**

**"How? Don't move. It's dangerous." Ruth reached for his shoulder to push him down, then paused. Her eyes went to some place past his. Her hand -- oddly cool -- brushed past his skin, then he felt her fingers on the curve of his ear. "George is healing," Ruth whispered. "There was a cut here. It was scabbed over. I was just looking at it ... "**

**Clay touched his stomach where he'd felt the wound. He pressed. Minimal pain. He pushed on the other bandages, feeling nothing but the cracking of crusted blood between his skin and the fabric. He scrambled upright. Ruth didn't try to stop him.**

**He looked down. Cream bandages, some stained red, covered George's body. "What happened? Why didn't he heal before?"**

**"We don't know. George was helping us yesterday morning, and he just ... toppled over. It's evening now. It's been a day and a half. Amy spent most of her time looking after him. She's finally sleeping now, thank goodness for that."**

**"A day and a half? Without healing?" Clay repeated, his voice strained.**

**"Until you showed up. He's unconscious. How could George pull you in?"**

**"Maybe his defenses were down while he was sleeping?" He felt warm, too warm, and it had nothing to do with the embers glowing nearby.**

**"How long has George been pulling you in like this?" Ruth's voice sounded harsher than it ever did when she talked to George.**

**"Since we were kids."**

**"When did he start healing?"**

**"After I first came. I ... after."**

**Ruth looked at him flatly. "You appear, he heals. You disappear, he stops healing. Medicine gives you control when George has never had control, ever. Are you sure _you're_ not the mage?" **

**"I think ... " Clay said, and he closed his eyes, his lips speaking the words he was so reluctant to admit. "I think. I think ... I just wanted to see how George was doing. I was worried. I should go now."**

**He couldn't be responsible for George's healing. He couldn't.**

**He couldn't be in charge of --**

**But he'd taken control just now, hadn't he? Ruth was right. George was unconscious. He wouldn't be able to pull him in or kick him out. If he could make himself leave now just as easily, then --**

\-- Clay slid against the bathroom tiles, tumbling to the floor. He flailed, his foot lashing out against the door, his arms stuck between him and the wall. "What -- " he gasped. 

"You all right in there?" Mom called. 

"Yeah, pee carefully!" Drista laughed. She was joking with him more often now. He'd been trying to joke back. 

"I'm fine," he said after too long. He pulled himself up by the door handle, unlocked the door, and stumbled out. "Keep watching the movie without me." 

The amusement vanished from their faces. 

Was he responsible? If, with those pills, he could travel back and forth whenever he wanted -- if he made George heal -- maybe George wasn't the one to kick him out on Monday. He might've simply snapped free on his own. And then, while he was back in his own skin, flirting with Anna and finding sites to download films from, George had almost died, or, at least from the wounds that's what it seemed like. 

Because _he wasn't_ there. 

Clay didn't make it past the top step. He turned and sat, gripping the banister. He stared down the curve of the stairs with hollow eyes. If his presence made George heal ... 

If somehow, all along, he'd pushed himself into George's world instead of being pulled ... 

George wasn't a mage, or a spirit. He never had been. That was why his healing stuttered and paused: because he kept blinking in and out. Without him, George wouldn't heal at all. He wouldn't have been burned and cut and drowned and choked and -- 

And none of that. 

Clay's hand dropped from the banister. He clutched his hair. The hair Mom obsessed over. He'd been running around blaming George for ruining his life while he -- while Mom slicked his hair and Dad cooked and Drista freaked out about her play, and he had this cozy little life, and all this time he'd been the one to -- 

His hand slid down his face, pressing against his mouth. Cool fingers against hot skin. 

"Are you having a seizure?" Mom stood at the bottom of the stairs and put her foot on the first step. "You shouldn't sit there. It's dangerous." 

"No seizure. I just -- I need to be alone for a minute. Keep watching the movie. It's good." He managed a smile, but it wasn't a Mom-smile or any smile she'd recognize. 

Clay didn't know if he recognized it, either. 


	16. DUPLICITY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the double update, thank you all for the support and lengthy comments, they make my day! <3

**Trigger Warnings:**

-tension, mild angst

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - DUPLICITY

"I'm not a mage." George stared at his hands as he said that, puzzled. "I'm not a mage."

"George, you need to stop -- " Ruth cut herself off as Amy entered the room, her face scrunched up with worry, the door was shut with an audible _thump_. 

Amy's hands moved with dexterity, words exchanged to the other woman -- words George didn't understand. Ruth immediately leapt up to leave, she turned before closing the door behind her, swiftly nodding in the direction of George, "watch him for me," she turned to him, "don't do anything stupid while I'm gone." 

And with that, she left. 

George felt an awkward sense of guilt, as the patter of her feet faded away, he wasn't sure if he should attempt to spark conversation with Amy, or to leave her be. He didn't have much time to debate the notion, as Amy tapped on his shoulder, forcing him to glance to her.

She outstretched her hands with a worn notebook in them, a friendly smile gracing her features. He hesitantly took the notebook that felt heavy in his grip. George looked down to see words already scrawled across the paper in neat, dainty handwriting. 

" _Want to learn some sign language?_ "

He took a moment to collect himself, and debated on the idea of declining her offer, but it came down to one thought: he didn't have anything better to do. 

Reluctantly, he nodded his head, "sure." A grin of pride could be seen, and George was nervous about that too. He didn't want to disappoint. Amy clapped once in this assertive-way that George didn't know what to think of, and then she took the notebook back, the pencil scratching as she wrote. 

" _We'll start with finger-spelling, that's where you spell out each letter of a word. It's easiest to remember_." 

George nodded mindlessly, pretending he understood the difference as more words spilled onto the paper. 

" _I'm actually from America, so I'll be teaching you ASL (American Sign Language) England has their own sign language, even though both places speak English, the signs are different._ " 

She turned to him and offered a meek smile. 

" _Sorry if that's confusing_." 

He shook his head, "no, it's okay. I had no idea. Thank you for trying to teach me." George scratched the hairs on the back of his neck.

She nodded her head and gave a silent huff of 'let's-get-down-to-business'. 

On the notebook she scribbled each letter of the alphabet, setting it between the two of them. She had made her way to the bed and had sat on the edge of it within the span of their 'conversation'. 

Amy held up her hand in a loose fist, her small thumb untucked. With her other, she pointed to the letter 'A'. George repeated the gesture, "like this?" 

Amy nodded and gave a thumbs up, her warm smile making the small confirmation all the more genuine. 

She went on with the next letter; her thumb now tucked into her palm with her other fingers upwards -- making a rectangular shape without any spaces. Just like last time, her other hand went to show the letter 'B'. He repeated the sign. She nodded, and they continued. 

The experience was enlightening, and George found himself enjoying the practical skill, despite her only knowing American Sign Language in an area where it wasn't as common, he figured it was better than nothing. He couldn't imagine being unable to communicate outwardly with the world around you. 

It hit him too close for comfort he realized. 

This situation of not being able to portray yourself -- of being invisible. 

All he could think of was _Dream_. 

In the moment of loosing his train of thought, a pat on his leg brought him back. 

" _Are you alright?_ " 

He read the paper twice, "yeah ... just ... just thinking about stuff." _Stuff._ He scoffed internally at his own words. Yeah, stuff like having some other _thing_ take control of your body at a moment's notice. 

Y'know, just your usual _stuff._

Amy nodded in understanding, her eyebrows twitching upwards. The sound of pencil on paper was starting to capture his attention more than he thought it ever could -- his head snapped to wait for her message. 

" _We are here for you._ " 

Those five words shattered his world. It was something he'd never thought he would take to heart.

It had always felt so fake -- so forced.

Amy may not have spoken the message, but they were the most genuine words he had ever heard. His smile wavered as tears burned behind his eyes. 

It had been so long since he had ever taken a moment to himself -- and he knows that he should have ... he just never had the time. He couldn't recall ever having felt this amount of safety and acceptance, this amount of security and reassurance, no amount of unconditional love, or -- tears made their way down his face. 

And for once he let them show. 

In a broken voice he let out a few simple words, words that he meant with every fibre of his being. 

"Thank you." 

She nodded and offered him a hug, which he took gratefully. He let himself sink into the embrace for a moment, and an awkward chuckle left his chest. 

"Sorry for being a cry-baby. I appreciate you guys being so nice." 

Scribble. 

" _No problem at all._ " 

Was he here right now? George could scratch open his skin and see. If he healed, Dream was there, snug behind his eyes. If he bled, he was alone. 

The door creaked open. 

Damon stopped in the doorway and looked George over flatly. "You're healed." 

A flurry of panic took over George, he could feel his face pale at the sight of him. 

George said nothing. He nodded. 

He was never 'magical'. 

Of course he wasn't. His healing had never been solid, and when he looked it up, all he came across were a bunch of weirdos on the internet who claimed to be witches. He'd never done a spell like they had claimed to do. He thought that maybe he could find out some more, maybe learn how to control it better, but -- 

He was not a mage.

He was just some unlucky guy. He wasn't the main character of some dystopian novel who had magical powers. Dream did. Dream needed his body in one piece -- of course he would heal George. Dream did seem surprised; he could tell from the way he had stumbled around in his body, from the way his hands had moved, but he'd still been the one in control. On some level, he must've known. 

Damon had probably known, too. All these years. 

"Good." Damon's voice said as little as his face did. "How are you feeling?" 

"Better," George managed out. "Hungry." He attempted to sound like himself, he kept his responses short, that is how he talked, right? 

Behind Damon, Ruth made her way into the room, pushing past his wide stature. "His face started to brighten back up. He woke up a minute or so later." 

George's hairs pricked upright against his bandages. Damon never looked at George this long, and he _never_ looked at him while someone else spoke. He always made sure to give anyone else but George his undivided attention. 

"So, would you care to explain what all happened here?" Damon made his way into the room as well, walking to a spare chair, George shifted uncomfortably in the bed. 

"I don't know," George said. He tried not to rub his bandages, but they were tight, and the dried blood itched like mad when he moved slightly.

"George had been helping out in the kitchen, he -- he was cutting up some strawberries for the jam and then, and then he just -- collapsed." Ruth's voice was more rushed then usual, it was a small detail, but he picked up on it. 

"And the injuries?" George hated this version of Damon, this facade of compassion and checking off his list of manipulation steps. He knew the real Damon was brewing behind those words. 

Ruth sighs, "He managed to knock over a ton of kitchen equipment, and the knife -- the one for the strawberries -- well ... It went down with him." 

That explains the abdomen then, despite Ruth's roundabout explaination, he pieced it together. 

"We had to get him out from under everything and it managed to be at the right angle to ... " 

Ruth's sentence was never finished as Damon got up and walked towards George, he involuntarily cringed away from him. If Dream wasn't here, he'd actually have to worry about dying, something he had never considered before now. His mortality was painfully present.

"You didn't think to take him to the hospital?" His voice was too calm. Too even. 

"I -- well, we figured it wasn't that deep, and all the injuries were manageable and ... It would just be an unnecessary medical bill. I called because he hadn't woken up." 

He saw muscles moving in Damon's jaw, clenching and unclenching, and he knew that look. He wanted to run back and hide under the blankets and press himself against the wall, as far away as possible. He wanted to escape to every last spirit-abandoned nook of the planet. 

He didn't want to see that look. 

"You knew you were having blackouts." It wasn't just the muscles in Damon's face tensing up now, but the ones in his neck too, and the tendons in his hands as he crushed them into fists. "It's not safe for you to be alone like this." 

"I'm sorry, I -- " he said, but he shouldn't be talking. His hands shook. He hated himself for staying in the bed, under his glare. Hated himself for apologizing. 

"But this isn't about that." And suddenly all the anger and tension vanished, as if he flipped a switch.

His hands no longer fists. His jaw no longer clenched.

"I suppose this is fine, you're lucky I don't sue this establishment for multiple violations." He side-glanced at Ruth, and George saw her swallow nervously. "Anyways, thanks for calling me, I was starting to get worried." 

His glance moved back to George's face, unwavering. The eye-contact was suffocating. 

"Once you are feeling better, return home. Or call and I'll pick you up, thanks for taking care of him." 

The clunk of his boots are loud and were much slower than George's heartbeat. 

He felt as if the world could hear the thumping in his chest, and the ding of the shop door finalized his fate. 


	17. REPOSE

**Trigger Warnings:**

-mentions of seizures, mild angst

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - REPOSE

Clay wrote fast, with ugly scrawls that went beyond the lines of his notebook and pressed through the paper, with words that turned into jagged lines when he dropped his pen to flick through earlier entries. 

This notebook only went back a few weeks. He crouched by his cabinet and pulled out one stack of notebooks after another until he reached the ones at the bottom, pressed flat by the weight of the others. Their paper had yellowed. 

He started these shortly before turning six. Dr. Anderson had asked him to keep track of what he saw, intrigued by the idea of hallucinations that had continuity, a consistent cast of characters. Those first notebooks were a mix of his own childish handwriting -- all slow, careful block letters -- and Mom's cursive. She helped him back then. He had continued on his own. 

He kept reading. Had he ever opened his eyes wide to wait out George's injuries, returning only when he'd already healed? Lord knew he tried. He never escaped the pain. He always figured the same as George had: that his 'magic' was erratic. 

He didn't _have_ magic. 

His fingers traced old letters. The notebooks described his old house, and his childhood friends he had to leave behind. How George had sneaked out to hang out with them. How they eventually blamed him after he told them he was moving away. How he'd learned to appreciate being on his own. How he missed his father. 

Once, his father had watched him from the front gates. It would be the last he'd ever see him. "Don't look," his mother had told him. "It'll just be more difficult." 

George had looked anyway, letting Clay see his father for the last time as well. His description went on for a whole page. 

George tried sometimes, but could no longer remember him. Neither could Clay. Reading these descriptions, though, -- about his father's scarf wrapped sloppily around his shoulders, or the way his hair had gone gray -- the images came back with such vividness, he wondered how he ever forgot. 

George's father had looked sad. Clay hadn't written that down. He remembered. 

He leafed ahead to how George had discovered his healing, to the fighting, then to the next notebook, after Damon had showed up out of nowhere and ruined George's already messed up relationship with his mother. He'd shown George violence and pain, something that Clay would never forgive, especially after George had reached out with accepting arms, only to be ... only for Damon to ... 

Clay snapped the notebook shut. Clouds of dust whirled out. He pored over the others and there was that time where George's mother had made him breakfast in bed for his birthday, the smell of the syrup, the taste of her home-made butter coating each pancake. Memories flooded over him as he glimpsed at the books. 

Clay sat on his bedroom floor, notebooks piled all around, and stared at the pages in a haze. In that journal, that was when some girl confessed to George. In the next, they'd gone out and she revealed it had been a joke -- some friend dared her to "ask out the wall-flower." It took a long time for George to come to terms with it -- he had sneaked out of his house to meet with her. Damon hit him when he returned. 

Half the things Clay read, he didn't remember. He'd written it all down painstakingly, then let the details slip from his mind. Now, though, he needed to know. 

In that one, George had considered his attraction to guys for the first time. 

In that one, he taught himself how to cook and nearly burned the kitchen down, in the end, he managed to make something ... edible. 

And that one, George had watched children skate on frozen city canals. And throughout the other journals, George grew more serious, more quiet. The once friendly atmosphere of his home ruined and cracked further each day, and Clay had sat in this tiny, safe room and watched every minute. 

A knock. Clay made a sound. The door swung open. "Are you really okay?" Dad asked without preamble. 

"Sorry if I ruined the movie." Clay shut a recent journal, where he'd practiced drawing out what George looked like.

"No one expected the seizures to stop completely. If you're disappointed, that's all right. If you're feeling guilty ... " Dad's bushy eyebrows knitted together. "You don't owe us anything." 

"I didn't have a seizure." Clay didn't attempt a smile. He couldn't. "Can I be alone?" 

Dad looked at him for too long. Clay wished he would leave. Clay didn't know what else to say. He already felt bad for telling Dad to leave when he only wanted to help. They _all_ just wanted to help, since they thought he was lonely or shy, or insecure, but -- it was none of that. 

There wasn't any _him_ to feel insecure about. 

"Get some rest," Dad said. 

Clay only nodded. 

Dad shut the door, and Clay felt the weight on his chest compress him further. 

He isn't sure how long he zoned out for, but it must have been long enough.

"You okay?" Drista stood in his doorway, gloveless and in her pajamas -- an overlong shirt with a band he didn't know plastered on the front. 

"You should be asleep." 

Pause. 

"Yes. Thanks. Mom and Dad already checked. " Clay started to slide his notebooks back into his cabinet one by one. He dated them, so it was just a matter of deciphering his old, clunky handwriting to determine the order. "Twice." 

"Only twice?" Drista plopped onto his bed, watching his journals like she itched to get her hands on them. 

She probably meant it as a joke, but he couldn't deal with it. With her. Not now. "They shouldn't worry so much." 

Drista mimicked the vulnerable look she had been practicing for her play. " _Don't worry about me. I'm just having seizures every two seconds. Woe! Be still my aching heart!_ " She paused to contain a grin. " _But I'm fine. Really. Why are you so worried? I don't understand! BRB, writing angsty poetry._ "

Clay slapped the cabinet shut and reached for the key. 

" _BRB, locking cabinet full of angsty poetry_." Drista grinned a second time. "You like their attention -- admit it." 

"I don't," he said tightly. 

Drista's laughter finally faded. 

They were silent for a moment, and Drista said, sounding awkward, "it's just ... you go swimming three times a week and they act like it's the Olympics. I snatch up the lead in a play and Dad ruffles my hair. Mom's too busy to volunteer, but she trips all over herself to help with your homework and -- " 

"Do you seriously think I like any of that?" Clay rubbed his face. Could he do this? Forget about George, get sucked into his own drama? Live life. Fantasize about Anna. Bicker with Drista now that she finally felt comfortable enough to waltz into his room and tease him. George's grief didn't have to be his, did it? 

"It looks like you do." 

Even as screwed up as he was, he saw that this wasn't about him. "Drista, they're just letting you be independent. They don't think you _want_ the attention. Why don't you tell them you do?" 

"I didn't say that." She looked embarrassed. "That'd be pathetic. And needy. And pathetic. Whatever. It's way late. Mom'll kill you if you don't sleep soon. I just wanted to ask -- I had this idea -- like, what if I played that ER scene completely flat? On purpose?" 

"Sorry." Clay shook his head. "I ... tonight's not a good time."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Are you sure you're okay?" She climbed to her feet. 

"Absolutely." 

"So why not tonight?" When Clay didn't respond, she said, "You're lying, aren't you?" 

He clamped his mouth shut. Anything he said would just hurt her. 

When Drista stomped into the hallway, he took his current notebook -- the only one he didn't lock away -- and settled in at his desk. 

He was going to be there for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, and corrections are greatly appreciated, I currently have no schedule for this, as I am in school at the moment, sorry for any inconvenience! <3


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